Spirit and Dust
by otherhawk
Summary: COMPLETE! Six years before O11. There's a time for everything, even arguments. But sometimes there's less time than you think.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer 1: I own nothing to do with Ocean's 11**

**Disclaimer 2: The title of this piece is taken from an Emily Dickinson poem I'm rather partial to. First verse of which is**

**_Death is a Dialogue between  
The Spirit and the Dust.  
"Dissolve" says Death—The Spirit "Sir  
I have another Trust"—_**

**Disclaimer 3: Look. I have the attention span of a magpie in a jewellers, okay? Apparently expecting me to finish . . . well, anything, really . . . is just a little unrealistic without five other things being started in the meantime. But I swear, this was meant to be a oneshot.**

**Disclaimer 4: InSilva's read it and wants more. Therefore it's her fault.**

**Disclaimer 5: Obviously the fact that it's her fault in no way prevents me from being more grateful for the help and support than I can ever say. And in other news, this little author's note has gone on long enough.**

* * *

Rusty put the phone down just a little more forcefully than was strictly necessary. Well, that had been unexpected. He didn't even understand how it had started. One minute he'd been saying to Danny that this job would have been easier with two people, next minute they'd found themselves in a minefield of accusation and misunderstanding that they'd never known before. And he hadn't meant to imply that Danny should abandon everything - should abandon Tess - every time Rusty got bored and wanted to wander across the country, and he was almost certain that Danny hadn't meant to imply that Rusty was lost without him and jealous of Tess. But that was where they'd ended up, and Rusty certainly _had_ meant to suggest that maybe Danny hadn't missed him at all this past month, and that maybe he wouldn't bother joining Danny at the Met tomorrow, even if Danny did really have a plan this time. And that had been all about the hurting. Certainly it wasn't like he was planning on hanging around Havana for any length of time. He rubbed at his lip. God, they'd been so busy arguing, he hadn't even told Danny he'd left the country. Hadn't told him about chasing Manoso and about the bank-vault-that-wasn't in Miami and the briefcases in the safe in Havana.

He sighed and stared round the hotel room. This was stupid and this was unheard of, and this wasn't going to last. He wasn't going to let it. He hadn't meant any of it. _They_ hadn't meant any of it. They weren't like that and never had been. Two days, and he'd be sitting eating pizza with Danny, and he'd tell him all about the look on Manoso's face when he opened the briefcase and Danny would laugh and tell him that this time - this time - they'd actually manage to walk out of the museum with the Vermeer and he'd pretend he didn't believe a word of it, right up until the point where he did.

In the meantime; he'd call Danny back. If they were going to be stupid, there was no point in being stupid alone.

That was the moment when he heard someone kicking the door in.

* * *

Danny stared down at the phone in angry disbelief. It didn't ring. Oh, come _on_. Rusty couldn't have been serious about that. Well, not for any more than a couple of minutes, anyway. And Rusty had been calling him from a landline, not his cell, and the number was blocked and the cell was out of service or something, and Danny really needed to apologise, or at least let Rusty know he was sorry. He'd overreacted. He was an idiot. But it hadn't just been a couple of weeks this time, it had been a full month, and Danny had been a little more bored and a little more alone than he felt happy admitting.

Finally acknowledging that Rusty wasn't going to ring back, he walked back through to the living room. Tess looked up from her book and frowned at him.

"Danny? What's wrong?" she asked.

Huh. He hadn't thought it was that obvious. "Had a fight with Rusty," he admitted, sitting down heavily on the sofa.

There was a pause. "Really?" She sounded incredulous, and he almost smiled. He didn't think she'd ever heard of them fighting before.

"It was stupid," he told her, sighing. "I don't even know what it was about, but he didn't ring back, and now I don't know if he's planning on meeting me on tomorrow." It was possible. If Rusty was angry enough, he might stay away.

"He wouldn't punish you like that," Tess said definitely.

No. Probably he wouldn't. Probably. "But he might find something better to do," he suggested, gloomily. He sighed. "I think I might head over and see him tonight. Surprise him when he gets in.

Tess looked genuinely regretful. "We're having dinner with Richard Walling tonight, remember?"

Oh. Yes. The potential client for the gallery. The one Tess was under orders to schmooze. He'd promised to go along to the restaurant and help out with his more legitimate skills. "I'd forgotten," he said, apologetically.

"I really need your help, Danny." She smiled, wonderingly. "I've never known anyone who can lay on the charm like you and not sound _too _corny."

Oh, wait just a minute here. "I don't sound in the slightest bit 'corny'," he told her, indignation in his voice.

She smiled, teasingly. "I bought a new dress for tonight," she offered. "As a special incentive."

Danny raised an eyebrow. "Is this the sort of dress that's going to make it difficult for us to get through dinner?"

She shrugged, nonchalantly. "We may have to skip dessert."

He could feel the smile spread across his face. "I love you," he told her.

"Of course you do," Tess said, matter of factly. "You'd be lost without me."

He followed her to the bedroom, ready to get changed. He'd see Rusty in the morning. That was time enough.

* * *

It was kind of funny. If you had a sense of humour that was warped in all the right directions. One minute he'd been worried about arguing with Danny, the next his room was filled with men carrying guns; all looking far too pleased to see him. And they were led by the right hand – albeit three times removed – of the man that he'd just stolen a lot of money from. No one was here to help him and there was a good chance he was about to die in a particularly miserable hotel room. And he was _still _worried about arguing with Danny.

Ernesto kicked at his suitcase. "Going somewhere, my friend?" he grinned. "You are surprised to see us, yes?"

Rusty smiled back. "Well, I didn't think I'd _ordered,_ any room service," he agreed. He also hadn't thought he'd been made.

"You are going to come with us," Ernesto told him.

Rusty thought about the lobby and the street outside and considered the opportunities. "Do I have a choice?"

"No." Ernesto shook his head and casually concealed his gun under his coat. "This will be aimed at you all the time. If you try anything they will be scraping you off the walls and my wrist will be slapped."

They wanted him alive. Well, _he_ wanted him alive. It was nice to have some common ground. He nodded understandingly. "I would hate for you to have to shoot a hole in your coat." Any chance, any opportunity – he'd seize it with both hands.

Ernesto grinned some more. "You are a funny guy. For a yuma."

He'd had worst epitaphs in his time.

* * *

The dinner had been excruciating. Richard Walling had thought he was a real good ol' boy. Mrs Walling had thought he was a real sweetheart. The steak had been overdone and the walnut financier had not amused him as much as the name suggested. The only upside had been that Tess' dress had been full of promise.

He'd checked his phone an indecent number of times during dinner. Had checked whether anyone had called the house as soon as they'd got back. Tess had sighed, but she'd understood.

Rusty hadn't called back. And, honestly, Danny was feeling more than a little angry about that.

He wanted to explain, in great detail, that stubbornness wasn't always a virtue.

* * *

There had been an opportunity. He remembered that. As soon as they got out the hotel, there'd been an opportunity, and he'd seized it, and he'd ran, and now he was lying on his side, on the ground, his arms and legs were tied together behind his back, and his head hurt. Evidently he'd been something less than successful.

He opened his eyes. Dark room. Small dark room. One single rectangle of light. He squinted his eyes. Doorway. Doorway to the outside; that was moonlight. Either it had been a long trip or he'd been out for a while. Actually, probably both. And Ernesto and two of his friends were lounging in the doorway.

"Ah, yuma, you're awake," Ernesto called out genially. "I was afraid we would have to leave you without saying goodbye. Señor Manoso will want to deal with you personally, you understand. He is not so keen on people stealing from him, I fear, and he likes to make sure that is clearly understood. And so far, no one has ever made the same mistake twice."

"Difficult from beyond the grave," Rusty rasped out.

"My friend, in this world, all things are possible," Ernesto told him seriously and Rusty decided to let that one slide. "Unfortunately we have not yet been able to contact Señor Manoso. He is a busy man, you understand, and you are the very least of his problems. And so we must leave you for now. But never fear! We shall return, and Señor Manoso will show you the error of your ways."

Rusty knew what Manoso normally showed people who had displeased him. And, often, it involved a handy selection of power tools. But Manoso was long gone.

"Adios, yuma," Ernesto said cheerfully, "Feel free to scream and shout all you want. No one will hear."

The door was closed and he was left in total darkness.

They didn't know. Rusty realised that now. They didn't know that their boss had left the country hurriedly, in order to spend more time with his remaining money. And as soon as they found out, they'd follow. And that meant . . . he bit his lip.

Manoso wasn't going to come back. Not just for Rusty, no matter how much he'd stolen. Too many people were holding Manoso responsible for the con and he would never risk his own skin like that. And that meant that there was a strong probability that there weren't going to be any chainsaws in his future.

But that left him here. Alone. In the dark. With no one coming for him. With no one who knew where he was.

Oh, he was fucked.

* * *

Danny lay in the darkness, Tess' warmth pressed close to him, and he brooded quietly.

What _was_ this? What was going on? Suddenly they had an argument and there was radio silence and Rusty was talking about avoiding him? What were they, teenagers?

Of course he'd missed Rusty. Of course he had. Hell, that was why he'd called, why he'd suggested they try for the Met again. A month, and he'd been lonely.

He was the one who'd changed things. But it had been nearly three years now. And he understood that Rusty wasn't comfortable staying in any one place too long. But it had been a month. And he'd been lonely

It would serve Rusty right if _Danny_ didn't turn up tomorrow either.

* * *

**Please let me know what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Second chapter and I'm aiming to get this posted one chapter a day. Which means that it should be completed in less than a week. How much less than a week I'm not quite sure. Depends where the chapter breaks go, really. And InSilva's helping me with that. Well, with that and the screaming. We'll get to it. And really, want to say thank you, just one more time. Well. A few more times. Thank you.**

* * *

He sat in the little café for a couple of hours after they were supposed to meet. Just in case. Though he didn't know why; Rusty had never been late before.

He wasn't coming. He actually wasn't coming. He'd actually stood Danny up.

How had things gone this wrong?

* * *

He carried on pulling at the ropes for a couple of hours after his wrists had started bleeding. Just in case. If nothing else, it kept his mind off the biting agony in his shoulders, and his back, and his thighs and his calves, and the throbbing pain at his temple.

There was blood on his face. It had dried now. But he could smell it and he could feel it, and it tickled, and he kept rubbing his face against the ground, trying to get rid of it.

He wasn't making any progress with the knots.

He wasn't going to.

He kept trying.

* * *

Danny stood outside Rusty's apartment, key in hand, and hesitated. But he thought, maybe, they had to talk. He'd stopped feeling angry, he'd tried to stop feeling hurt, and now he just felt empty inside. Full of doubt he'd never known before. He remembered Rusty's little crack about Danny not missing him, and he wondered if Rusty could believe that was the truth. He wondered if maybe he'd been neglecting a few too many chance meetings lately, passing on a few too many jobs, missing a few too many nights of relaxation and wonder.

He'd tried Rusty's cell a few hundred times more, and there'd still been no answer. Maybe the network coverage wasn't so good in Miami. Like he understood. He honestly hadn't even wanted to get one, until Livingston had quietly explained that it would mean that he'd be able to get hold of Rusty any time and any where. At the push of a button. That had sounded good.

Look how that had worked out.

With a sudden determination, he pushed the door open. "Rusty?" he called out.

There was no answer. And he knew immediately that there was no one in the apartment. There was a feeling of emptiness. There was a couple of leaflets stuffed under the door. There was also an empty, month-old pizza box on the counter, which, really, should be an issue at some point.

But Rusty wasn't here.

He reached for his phone quickly and searched through his phone box. John. Their contact with strange power over all airlines. He hit the number. John answered on the fourth ring. "Yo!"

"John, it's Danny. Need you to check the four thirty flight from Miami to New York yesterday." Rusty had said he'd be landing just before eight. "You're looking for one of these names. William Cannell, Jean Bergeran, Simon Paxton, Luke Everard, Anthony Weston-Smythe, Richard Smilie." He paused and mentally counted back. He'd missed one. How could he forget? There were reasons they'd always made damned sure that they both always knew each other's main aliases. Even when those were changing every few weeks, they shared and memorised because they needed to know. He screwed his eyes up for a second and it came to him in a flash. "And Dustin Forrester," he said triumphantly. He paused slightly. "And Robert Ryan," he added, reluctantly. It was always possible. Extremely unlikely, but always possible.

John cleared his throat. "Rusty?"

"Yeah," Danny agreed quietly.

"Everything okay, Danny?" Not an unreasonable question.

"Fine. Was thinking of surprising him, and thought he might be back," Danny explained, easily.

John didn't ask any more questions, and Danny could hear the sound of rapid typing. "Okay . . . here we go," John said at last. "Jean Bergeran was booked on that flight, but he never checked in."

That was what he needed to know. Not what he wanted to know, but what he needed to know. "Thanks, John. Usual price?"

"Of course," John replied. "That everything you need for now?"

"Yeah. See you around."

"Bye." John hung up.

Well. This wasn't good.

Rusty hadn't made it home from Miami.

Danny drew in a shaky breath. Either Rusty was so upset with him that he'd decided to stay away from the entire city for a while, or else . . . or else there was an or else.

There was a cold thread of fear trailing up his spine.

He had to find Rusty.

He grabbed the passports he kept at Rusty's and headed to the airport.

He had to find Rusty.

* * *

It was daytime now. He knew that. He didn't know how long the night had lasted, but he knew this was day, even though it was still dark, even though he couldn't see anything, no matter how much he squinted, no matter how much he strained his eyes, but he knew that this was day, because the little room, the little metal room was getting hotter and hotter, and there was nowhere he could go to escape it and it was getting hotter, and he couldn't breathe properly, and it was getting painful to swallow.

He ran his tongue over lips. Didn't help. Hurt, actually. But they were so dry and so cracked and so sore and he couldn't stop himself.

It was daytime. Probably afternoon, judging by the heat. He was meant to meet Danny sometime around now, maybe. Danny was going to think he'd stayed away on purpose. Like he'd said. Because he wanted to.

He wanted to be in that café. He wanted to be in that café with a glass of iced water and a slice of cake, and Danny. Danny smiling at him, leaning back, with that relaxed intensity, that glorious thrill, that joy, that he wore at the start of every new job.

He wanted Danny.

It was getting hotter.

* * *

Danny's phone rang insistently as he walked out of the airport and into the blazing Florida summer. With a stab of hope, he reached for it and checked the display. Oh. Tess. Not Rusty. And, thinking about it . . . he grimaced and answered. "Hi, Tess."

"Danny." The smile in her voice was obvious. And, in the circumstances, probably wasn't going to last. "Could you possibly pick up a carton of milk on your way home?"

"I'm in Miami, Tess," he said. Better to get the difficult bit out of the way first.

There was a long silence.

"Why?" she asked, neutrally.

Oh. Actually _this_ might be the difficult bit. He scrabbled round for an explanation – for a lie she could believe. He hated this. "Well, I was talking to Simon, and some of the deal is looking a bit shaky, and he was going to fly down this afternoon, but his mother's sick, so I said I would, and I know I should've told you first, but I wasn't thinking. Sorry."

"I see." There was a deeper significance to her words, and, strangely, her voice was a little warmer. "Did Rusty fly back?"

"No, he's still down here." Somewhere.

"Have you managed to work things out yet?" Tess asked and Danny felt the lies turn to ashes in his mouth. She'd been worried about him. She'd been worried about him arguing with Rusty and she _wanted_ him to take the time to make it better. Oh, in what possible world did he deserve her?

"We haven't really had a chance to talk yet," he said, and at least it wasn't a lie.

"Remember, some things are worth fighting for," she told him.

He closed his eyes. "I know." He hesitated. "I love you so much," he said, in a rush, as though it was for the very first time.

"I love you too, Danny," she said and she sounded confused and pleased. "When do you think you'll be home?" It wasn't the first time he'd had to leave suddenly. She accepted. She didn't like, but she accepted.

"A few days at most," he promised, and he could have kicked himself. "I hope," he added.

"I'll buy my own milk then," she laughed.

They talked, for a while, about her day and about Lawrence Olivier and about Cassandra, and he really did love her.

* * *

He'd heard a noise outside. He knew he had. He'd heard a noise and he'd started yelling and screaming, just as loud as he could, until his lungs ached, until his throat was raw with effort and scratched by dust. And he'd kicked at the wall, again and again and again, ignoring the resurgence of agony in his limbs and back, ignoring the pounding in his head that felt like a claw hammer scraping against the inside of his skull, over, and, over, and over, because there was a noise outside and he couldn't let the opportunity slide by.

When he finally stopped, after what felt like hours, after what might well have _been_ hours, when he finally stopped, exhausted and sore and hot and _thirsty, _he lay absolutely still, hoping that the pain in his arms and legs would subside again, and wondered how long it would take him to die. Three days, he thought, was the average.

Later he heard the noise again. Scrabbling. Scratching. Some sort of animal, he thought. Probably a rat.

After a moment he started pulling at the ropes again. His fingers were too numb and swollen to do more than vaguely fumble, but perhaps the blood had slicked the ropes enough to do some good.

* * *

Danny thanked the night receptionist with a smile, politely took the shyly proffered phone number, and walked out of the hotel into the street. The sun was just starting to come up and he rubbed at his eyes and told himself that he wasn't tired.

Rusty had left the hotel over a week ago. And, since the hotel had ordered him a cab to the airport, Rusty had almost certainly left Miami over a week ago.

Danny had spent all night phoning round hotels with a list of likely names, convincing a variety of bewildered night staff, that he was trying to find a Bachelor party; that he was a lawyer trying to trace an unknown heir; that he was a private detective; that he was a talent scout; that he was a spy. Whatever they wanted, he'd tell them, and on the twelfth attempt he'd found Luke Everard, and he'd headed to the Dupont Plaza, desperate to find out everything he could. All night, a thousand lies, and he was no further forwards. Hell, really, he was further back, and the coldness was growing inside.

With a sudden movement, he grabbed his phone and called John again. He had to do something.

It rang a couple of times, then John answered and cleared his throat. "Hello?"

"John, it's Danny," he said quietly.

John groaned. "Do you know what time it is?"

He did. "Yeah, sorry. I need another favour."

There was a pause and a sigh. "Danny . . . "

"I need you to run the same list of names for flights leaving Miami eight days ago," he said quickly. "After three in the afternoon."

"Can't this wait till morning?" John suggested, sleepily.

Danny glanced up at the sky. "It is morning."

"Look, Danny . . ." John began with more than a hint of impatience.

"Rusty's missing." He didn't recognise his own voice. Hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to think that. There was a long silence. He swallowed hard. "John?"

"_Missing_, missing?" John asked, eventually, hesitantly.

"I don't know," Danny said quietly. Unlikely, probably, maybe, yes. He didn't know.

"Every flight leaving Miami will take a while. I'll get back to you," John promised, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Try not to worry too much, yeah? I'm sure Rusty can take care of himself."

"Bye, John." He hung up and stared at the phone in his hand for a few seconds.

Rusty was missing.

Danny had to find him.

* * *

_They were in a bar, being served drinks by a woman dressed as Snow White, and Danny kept insisting that they should act friendly, get to know her, because the dwarves had a gold mine and a whisky distillery, and it wasn't like Rusty was arguing with him, but his glass was full of sand, and he just wanted something to drink and Danny wasn't listening to him because he was too busy trying to guess the woman's name, and Rusty tried to tell him that it was Rumpelstiltskin, but his mouth was too dry and his throat was too sore, so he tried to drink out of Danny's glass instead, because if he couldn't get a drink soon, they'd take him away and they'd stick him in a box, in the dark, in the _heat,_ and they wouldn't let Danny come for him but Danny's glass was full of sand too, and so was the bottle, and there was something wrong here, there was something wrong . . . _

He opened his eyes; there was dust in them. There was dust in his mouth and in his nose and throat. There was a lingering feeling of dampness at the crotch of his pants that filled him with a vague disgust. There was a pain in his head that felt as though someone had stuffed his skull with barbed wire. There was a dull agony in his back and arms and legs that felt as though as soon as he moved even the smallest of muscles he'd be trying to scream again. There was pain and there was thirst and there was darkness. But there wasn't any bar and there wasn't any woman. There wasn't any Danny.

He'd fallen asleep. Huh. He should probably try not to do that too much; one time he wouldn't wake up again.

He wondered if Danny was very angry at him.

* * *

John called him just as he was walking up to the gym and began talking as soon as Danny answered. "I'm sorry, Danny. I struck out. No one by any of those names flew from Miami on that day. Or the day before, or the day after."

Danny swallowed hard and wondered what that meant. Other than the fact that, once again, he hadn't the first clue where Rusty was. "Thanks for trying, John."

"You need me, just call," John told him, just before he hung up.

He took a deep breath, pushed the glass door open and was immediately confronted by an exhausted looking blonde, dressed in a suit and clutching a plastic cup of coffee. "You must be Mr Ocean," she said, swapping the cup between hands for a moment, before putting it on the desk behind her and shaking his hand vigorously.

"Danny," he corrected her, gently.

"Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry. Normally I'm not working at this time . . . sorry, I'm Penny. I'm Angel's PA."

"Nice to meet you," Danny said politely. "Is she . . .?"

"Follow me," Penny nodded and led him through the double doors into the gym.

He caught sight of Angel, stepping away from the treadmill. She nodded briskly to him and strode over. He looked up at her and smiled. "Angel. You're looking - "

" - sweaty and bedraggled," Angel interrupted with a roll of her eyes. "If you must flatter, wait until I'm at least looking human."

"How do you know I was planning on finishing that sentence with a compliment?" Danny asked.

Angel laughed, appreciatively. "Penny, get me a bottle of water. And a coffee - coffee? - " Danny nodded. "A black coffee for Danny."

"Okay, Angel." Penny skittered off.

Angel sighed. "She's a fantastic PA. But she's useless before seven. So, Danny. Come and tell me what's so important."

Without looking to see if he was following she headed into the female changing room. Danny hesitated outside the doorway. "You know I'm not exactly qualified to walk through that door."

She threw a smile over her shoulder. "We're the only ones here. The gym doesn't open for another hour. Perks of being the owner."

With a shrug, he followed her in. She pointed at a bench next to a row of lockers. "Sit and stay," she told him, and disappeared towards the showers. "And start talking," she yelled back. "Loudly."

He sat. "Rusty was in Miami last week."

"Uh huh," came her voice, over the sound of running water. "And he didn't come see me."

Danny hadn't necessarily thought that he had, though it would have made everything easier. Angel owned, or had an interest in, a high proportion of all the bars, clubs and restaurants in Miami. And somehow, she always knew who was talking to who. "Who did he go see?"

There was a moment. "Mmmm. Let me think."

Danny waited. Patiently.

Penny knocked and came in, clutching two bottles of water to her chest. Danny accepted graciously and didn't bother correcting her. She left, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

Eventually, Angel emerged from the shower wearing only a towel. "Turn your head," she ordered, and Danny, without even the smallest desire to do otherwise, complied.

There was the sound of a locker opening and the sounds of Angel getting dressed. Eventually she sighed. "You can turn round now."

He did. "Do you know - "

She interrupted with a frown. " - You didn't even try to sneak a peek?"

"No," he said, almost apologetically.

Angel nodded. "Heard you got married."

"Yeah." He cleared his throat and resisted the urge to hold up his wedding ring as proof. "Two years now."

"What's she like?" Angel asked, her head tilted to one side.

Danny took a deep breath. "Wonderful. She's wonderful."

Angel smiled, a little sadly, and turned away from him to fix her hair. "Rusty spent his time with Juan Tatis and Tony Carr. Separately. I don't know what he was doing, I don't know where he is. And I'm sorry."

"Thanks, Angel," he said, sincerely, and he smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes softened as she looked at him.

He stood up to leave and accidentally spilled the bottle of water all over the floor. Oh, well. No great loss as long as it didn't ruin his shoes.

* * *

Water. He wanted water. The pain in his head was unbearable. The pain everywhere was unbearable, and he wanted water, he wanted a drink, liquid something, he didn't mind, just something to make it all go away. His lips were cracked and he could taste blood, and he sucked at it eagerly. His tongue felt hot and swollen. He thought maybe he'd choke on it. He thought maybe that couldn't happen.

He wanted water.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, and if you want to leave feedback it won't actually make me write any faster, but it'll make me feel better. And I have a head cold. I need all the help I can get. ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Three chapters in three days. Huh.**

* * *

It was nearly six hours before he managed to get hold of Juan. Six hours he spent drinking coffee and listening to the robot that told him Rusty's phone was out of service.

This could still all be a massive misunderstanding. Could be Danny was being punished. Being taught a lesson in what it was like to be ignored. Except that wasn't Rusty. Could be that he'd found something else. Except that he would have called. Could be that he was alone and hurting because he thought Danny didn't care. Could be that he was _alone_ and _hurting._

He slid into the booth opposite Juan and didn't bother with a greeting. "I need to know what Rusty was doing," he stated bluntly. "And I need to know where he is."

Juan sighed and looked at him. "This is not the sort of information that I'd normally be willing to share. Discretion and integrity. These are the watchwords of men like ourselves."

As if they didn't know that. As if they didn't live that. He kept his voice down. Kept his expression respectful. "And normally I'd respect that. But this is me and Rusty we're talking about."

"All men have secrets," Juan said, reluctantly.

And he could hear the suggestion, the moment of mistrust, the thought that, maybe if Danny was spying on Rusty, maybe Rusty wouldn't want Danny to know. And that wasn't what was going on here. "Juan, please. Rusty is missing."

There was a long pause and Juan studied him. Looking for the truth, and Danny offered it freely. "That is not good news," Juan commented, finally.

Danny bit back the snarl. "No. Will you help us?"

Juan nodded seriously and leaned forwards. "His target was a man by the name of Roberto Manoso. You've heard of him?"

"Yes." Vaguely. Nothing definite. Nothing good.

"He is a very powerful man," Juan went on, eyes narrowed. "A very dangerous man."

Danny nodded. Dangerous and powerful had never tended to give them pause. And he might have _thought_ of asking Rusty to stick to the safe side of the street when he was on his own. But he never could. "What was the con?"

Juan continued to study him. "Manoso is trying to find his way into more legitimate areas of business. There was a meeting organised with numerous prominent figures across the Caribbean. Rusty planned to take the payoff money. The meeting was moved from Manoso's bank to a house in Havana."

Havana? Danny blinked. "What happened?"

"I do not know," Juan shrugged eloquently. "But I would surmise he was successful. Manoso is back home and very upset. And there are a lot people anxious to speak with him."

There was a pounding sound in Danny's head. A successful con. An angry mark. Rusty, missing. _Rusty. Missing_. "Did he . . . is Rusty . . . "

"Does he have Rusty?" Juan supplied for him. "I do not know. But I can find out."

"Thank you," Danny breathed.

Juan eyed him sympathetically. "It will take time to talk to my contacts in Manoso's camp. I shall call you when I know anything. Late tonight, I think."

"Thank you," he repeated. He stood up to take his leave.

"Danny," Juan called after him, hesitantly, gently. "The people that anger Manoso. Mostly they are never seen again. And the ones that are; mostly they are found in pieces."

There was a long pause. He didn't think. He didn't have to. "Not Rusty." It was more a prayer than anything else. "Not Rusty."

* * *

The temperature was rising again. A new day. Time was passing. Time was running out.

There was something tickling his cheek. He concentrated. There was a fly. Crawling up his face. A fly. And it took so much effort to lift his head, and just doing so sent tidal waves of pain crashing through his head, sweeping down his body. Least it distracted him from the heat for a moment. The heat distracted him from the pain and the pain distracted him from the heat and they both distracted him from the thirst, so really, there was no downside here.

The fly buzzed around angrily and settled at the corner of his mouth. He did his best to blow it away.

"I'm not dead," he told it seriously and he was startled by his own voice, hoarse and ragged and rasping. But alive.

Alive and talking to flies. That was probably something he should watch out for.

* * *

There was more waiting, and he hated it so much. He kept wondering where Rusty was now. If Manoso had him . . . if Manoso was hurting him . . . Danny would get him back. Danny had to get him back. There was no place on Earth that he wouldn't go. Nothing he wouldn't do. Rusty was his everything.

He phoned John and got confirmation that Jean Bergeran had been booked on the regular Charter from Havana to Miami. Of course. A Canadian passport. He should have thought of that. Should have known.

He spent time with Tony Carr, who knew nothing. Rusty had paid him a lot of money to help him fake a bank robbery. Safety deposit boxes, and Danny got a picture of Manoso being paranoid. Changing the meeting at the last moment. Taking it away from the bank. Taking it somewhere Rusty could hit.

Clever. Of course, clever. Brilliant.

What had gone wrong?

* * *

If he died here. If he died a thirsty, dusty, slow death here, in this little metal room in the middle of who knows where, would Danny know that he hadn't meant it?

There had been fights before. From time to time. Never serious. Always wrapped up in a moment, with a look and a gesture and an understanding. There was always understanding. And there had been the promise of death before. Threatened and looming. For each of them. For both of them. But this was both at once, and he wanted to know that Danny understood he hadn't meant it.

He'd meant the years they'd had, the life they'd had. The endless, the ridiculous, the sublime. Not the last three minutes. Not the stupid. Not the inane. Not the hurt.

He wanted Danny to know that. He wanted Danny to understand that.

He was shaking, and he didn't know why.

He forced his fingers to reach up, even though he couldn't actually feel the ropes anymore.

He wasn't going to die here.

* * *

Tess answered the phone after ten rings, just before Danny really started to worry. "Hello?"

"Hi, Tess," he said, with as much cheer as he could manage.

"Danny!" she sounded delighted. "How are you? How's everything going?"

"Great," he managed. "Everything's going great. The weather's wonderful here. And - "

" - What's wrong?" she interrupted and the concern was obvious.

He couldn't tell her what was wrong. He could never tell her what was wrong. "I thought . . . I just saw . . . it's nothing. Sorry, Tess. Just saw someone I didn't really want to see. I'll tell you all about it when I get home." By that time he'd have managed to think of some story to tell her. By that time he'd have Rusty to help him think of a story. He would.

"If you're sure . . . " Her voice was doubtful.

"Yeah," he said, reassuringly. "Don't worry about it."

"How's Rusty?" she asked, after a pause.

"I haven't . . . " He cleared his throat. Couldn't lie. Couldn't. "I haven't seen him yet."

"Really?" She sounded surprised. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

The silence stretched out. And Danny stood, and couldn't think.

"Danny?" And Tess was frightened now, and that was never acceptable.

"Sorry," He managed to put a smile in his voice. "Everything'll be fine. It's just me, worrying over nothing."

"Because you haven't seen Rusty?" she asked, tentatively.

"Yes," he admitted, and he tried to make it sound ridiculous.

He must have succeeded. She laughed a little. "Honestly, Danny. He'll be fine. What could possibly happen?"

"Nothing," he agreed, and a thousand scenarios swam before his eyes. "Nothing could happen."

"Exactly," and she sounded cheerful.

He held the phone tightly. "Tess? Could you talk to me for a while? Just talk, and let me listen."

"Danny . . . ?" She sounded frightened again, and he spoke quickly.

"I miss you is all." It was the truth.

"Feeling lonely?" she asked, teasingly.

"Yes," he said, quietly. God, yes.

And there was a second of silence, and he could picture her standing there, could picture the crease in her brow, could picture the worry in her eyes. Then she started to talk, and she told him about her day, and she told him about Venice, and why they should go there, and she told him about Picasso's life story and he listened and didn't feel so very alone.

Afterwards, after he'd told her a dozen times how very much he loved her, and how very much he missed her, after he hung up he sat down heavily, and he tried not to think that before the week was through, he might need to tell her everything. He might need to tell her how they'd lied to her. He might need to tell her about the game, and he might need to tell her that Rusty had . . .that Rusty had lost. That they had lost. That they were lost.

He might need to tell her.

* * *

There were things moving in the darkness. He kept seeing them out of the corner of his eye. Even when his eyes were closed. Even though he knew he couldn't see anything.

They whispered too. Mostly he couldn't make out any words. Sometimes he thought he heard Danny's name and he'd scream at them but his voice was barely more than a whisper and he couldn't hear himself.

And he could feel them looking at him, staring at him, walking round and round him, and he was trying to hide, but he didn't know where they were, and he didn't know what they wanted, and he couldn't get away.

They were there.

In the darkness.

* * *

Juan called him, sometime after midnight. He'd been sitting in his hotel room, pushing pasta round his plate, pretending to eat, pretending to rest, pretending to relax. He had no idea who the hell he was trying to fool.

"Danny. It's Juan." And immediately the voice was grim and full of portent. No. No, no, no.

"Tell me what you know," Danny ordered, his voice shaking, his mind screaming.

Juan sighed. "He is not with Manoso. He never left Cuba."

He paused. It wasn't . . . it wasn't 'I'm sorry'. It wasn't the three words that he couldn't survive. It wasn't the ending, the final, the terminal. "That's good, right?" he whispered. "That's good."

"I don't know," Juan said, after a long time.

"I'll find him, Juan," Danny promised.

"Yes. I believe you will." And Juan's voice was heavy with significance, and Danny knew he was already counting Rusty among the dead. Was imagining Danny finding Rusty's body. No, no, no, no, no.

Without another word, he hung up and called John. "I need to get to Havana as soon as possible."

"Give me a minute." He heard John moving. Heard him sit down. Heard the clatter of the keyboard. Resented every second.

"Okay," John said at last. "The next charter isn't scheduled until tomorrow afternoon."

Tomorrow afternoon was years away. "That's too much time. How about a private plane?"

John sighed, and Danny could hear the hesitation. "To Havana? Not that you can't fake the . . . it would take time."

"I don't have time," Danny said harshly. Time was running out. Time might have already run out. He was living in a possibility of too-late.

"If you're not an American citizen, you can catch a plane to Nassau and then another to Havana," John said quickly. "Leave at six, you'd be there before half nine."

Danny fingered the passports in his pocket. "Book Roderick Walker on."

There was a long pause. "Done," John said finally.

And that left him with six hours.

Six hours of waiting. Six hours of hoping.

He wondered if Rusty had six hours.


	4. Chapter 4

**Short chapter. Shrug.**

* * *

_There were monsters and they were coming for Danny. They were coming for Danny and they were going to hurt and they were going to kill and Danny was screaming for Rusty, begging and pleading and screaming and Rusty couldn't help him, because Rusty was dead and couldn't even feel the grief at watching them tear Danny apart, in the dark in the heat in the dust and Danny's mouth was full of blood and Danny died screaming for Rusty and Rusty didn't help him._

_

* * *

_

Danny woke up, shaking and he had to grab onto the plastic of the airport bench to remind himself where he was.

He'd fallen asleep. He hadn't meant to do that. How could he do that? How could he have even contemplated sleeping when he was living in the nightmare of the possibility? Of the too-late?

His fingers tightened on the plastic. Not Rusty, he reminded himself. Not a chance.

Biting his lip he checked his watch. Still another hour.

Another hour of waiting. Another hour of being useless.

_Rusty._

* * *

It was cold now. He thought it was cold now. He thought.

The trembling came over in waves, and he couldn't stop it, and everytime it made the aching just that little bit worse.

He wondered how long he'd been here. In the dark. In the pain.

He had to get out of here. He had to. He had to get free of these ropes and get out of here, because Danny had gone to get him a Coke, and he hadn't come back, and that had been a long time ago, and Rusty had to go and find him, because he might be in trouble. He might need help.

"Danny . . . " The voice was a whisper at best. He wondered where it came from.

* * *

As soon as he stepped out of the plane in Havana, the skies opened and the rain descended in sheets, bouncing off the runway. He heard enough surprised comments from around him to realise that this was unseasonable. Exceptional. Strange.

Good thing he wasn't superstitious. This looked like an omen.

* * *

There were giant insects above him. He could hear the patter of their feet on the metal roof. And they knew he was here, they must know he was here, and it was only a matter of time before they scratched their way through, before they came for him.

He whimpered and tried to burrow into the ground.

* * *

He stood in the middle of the sidewalk and looked up at the first hotel. This wasn't a plan; this was desperation.

He didn't have any contacts in Cuba. _They_ didn't have any contacts in Cuba. And it in all likelihood, for anyone that he could talk to, all the cards he could lay down - charm, reputation, favours, money - all of them would be beaten by the simple fact that in all probability, Rusty had just been responsible for them losing a hefty pay out.

He didn't have any contacts. He didn't have any idea where Rusty was. He didn't have any idea who had Rusty, or even if anyone did. Hell, for all he knew, it was still possible that Rusty was curled up in a bar somewhere, with a bottle and someone pretty, miserable because Danny had abandoned him. Possible. Not likely. Not at all likely.

He didn't have anything useful. What he had was a list of hotels in Havana grouped by location and price. And he was going to start with the most expensive and work his way down. And if that didn't work, then he'd think of something else. Something even more desperate. Something that put Rusty at even more risk. He wasn't going to give up. Not ever.

* * *

There was a noise. Significant noise. Important noise.

He tried to focus. Listened and tried to drown out the pain, tried to drown out the thirst.

Thirst.

There was water dripping.

Again. He heard it again. Somewhere, in the dark somewhere, there was water, slowly dripping, and he needed to move now, needed to find it, needed, desperately needed.

He listened for the next drip and concentrated. To his left, and he forced himself to move, even though it hurt, even though it took more of an effort than anything ever had in his life, he forced himself to wriggle, to push himself along the wall, to search for the wall in the darkness that was so much bigger than it had seemed.

It hurt, and he couldn't hear the water dripping anymore; not over the noises he was making.

It hurt and he couldn't cry, mustn't cry, because he needed every last drop of water.

It hurt and there weren't words vast enough to describe the pain.

It hurt.

* * *

The first ten or so hotels were well appointed and luxurious. They had all the facilities that Rusty would normally pretend he needed just to survive the morning. They were all exactly the sort of places that they'd normally stay in; and none of them had heard any of the aliases Danny enquired about. None of them had any recent guests that matched the description he gave.

He tried to remind himself that if Rusty had a new long term identity, if Rusty had drastically changed his appearance, he would have told Danny about it.

He tried not to remind himself that Rusty hadn't mentioned that he was in Cuba.

* * *

The top of his head struck the wall, and he stopped and tried to listen. Finally, the dripping noise came again. Still to his left.

And he was tired now, more tired than he'd ever been in his life, and his head hurt so much, and it took so much to convince himself not just to curl up and sleep.

Water. There was water.

He felt his way along the wall slowly, and in the end he felt something splash down onto his shoulder, and instinctively he turned his head and tried to suck at his shirt, tried to save the tiny drop of moisture. He couldn't reach, and again he felt like crying.

Instead, he brushed his face against the wall, trying to find out where the water had come from. There was a tiny dent, just on the edge of his reach. A tiny dent on the wall, and there seemed to be a tiny trickle of water leading down to it. Must be from the roof. And when it overflowed, the drips landed on the floor.

Greedily, he pushed his tongue against the wall, and he'd meant to ration it, he really had, but there was hardly enough to swallow, and it tasted of dirt and rust and something bitter that he couldn't identify, but it was water, and he sucked at it frantically, he sucked at it, trying to get up every drop, every taste, every _anything_, and eagerly, he rasped his tongue over the metal wall and he felt the too-rough surface scour him like sandpaper, and still he lapped at the trickle, like an abandoned dog, alone and frightened and desperate, he lapped at it till it ran out and when that was done, when he was sure there wasn't a drop left to be found, he pressed his face to the ground, and licked at the dirt, hoping that maybe the drips that had fallen hadn't all disappeared yet, but it was gone. It was all gone.

There was no more water. And he was thirstier than ever.

* * *

More hotels. More and more hotels. And they were more downmarket now, and he was more desperate now. And the staff in most of them didn't speak English, and he had to switch to Spanish, and his Spanish was clumsy at best, and that meant that it all took a little more time, and since when did he have a little more time? He tried not to think about Rusty, grinning and calling his accent a national embarrassment.

More hotels. And none of them had seen Rusty.

* * *

"Please . . . please . . ." He was begging through cracked lips. Just another drop of water. Just a little. Just enough to wet his lips. Just enough to cool him down. Just enough to take the edge of the headache.

There was no more water. And the temperature was rising. There wouldn't be any more water.

"Please . . . " he begged.


	5. Chapter 5

**Yes, there was no update yesterday. Interestingly, it wasn't because the chapter wasn't ready. I forgot. Yes, I forgot to update, I know, it's stupid. But I was all wrapped up in finishing the next chapter of 'Falling like dominoes', if anyone remembers that? Yeah, well, InSilva is currently reading it, and offering help and enthusiasm and mockery and everything else that it needs, which just goes to show that she's a wonderful person, and so, oh, very shortly certainly by the weekend, I should be happy enough with it to update. And then the entire fic may be completed by the year 2525. If man is still alive.**

**Suddenly realised this has _nothing_ to do with this story. Ahem. Next chapter of 'Spirit and Dust'. **

* * *

By noon the heat was stifling and, reluctantly, hating the need, Danny took a couple of minute to grab a bottle of water and a pair of sunglasses.

Then there were more hotels. More fast talking, more charm, more bribes, and every time he was met with denial and baffled looks.

No one had seen Rusty.

* * *

His arm was pressed tight against the metal wall and it took him far too long to realise that he was being burnt. So much pain anyway, and he was so tired, so, very tired, and he just didn't realise what the new pain meant until he could almost smell the burning flesh.

He shoved himself away from the wall, rolled over, rolled away, and his muscles screamed in protest, and there were blinding lights flashing behind his eyes, and the agony came and didn't didn't fade for a long time.

* * *

Hopelessness and desperation had become a way of being, and he was astonished when he wordlessly handed over ten American dollars to the unshaven proprietor of the dingy hotel in exchange for the guest book and looked down to discover that William Cannell was staying there and hadn't checked out.

"This man," he stammered in Spanish, pointing at the name. "When did you last see him?"

The proprietor held out a hand and Danny impatiently thrust a handful of notes into it. "Three days ago," the man said, with an incurious shrug. "He left with a group of other men. I don't know where."

"What men?" Danny demanded. "What did they look like?"

There was a laugh. "I did not look." With a smile, the man produced a key. "For another ten dollars, you can see his room. For another twenty, I will not look if you want to take his stuff."

Danny gritted his teeth and handed the money over. The concierge smiled and went back to clicking his tongue at the radio.

There might be something. Some clue. Something. Anything.

* * *

Time had passed since he'd been here; he realised that, through the pain and the thirst and the haze. Time had passed. A lot of time. He'd been here just a little longer than forever.

And that meant Danny would be looking for him by now. For definite. Even if he'd thought that Rusty had stood him up, had deliberately stayed away, he'd know that there would be no way that Rusty wouldn't have called.

Danny would be looking. And the thing about Danny was, he didn't know anything about quitting.

Eventually Danny would find him. It could be weeks, or months or years, but eventually, somehow, Danny would find him.

And Rusty was so sorry about that.

* * *

There was nothing in the room. Nothing helpful, anyway. The door had been forced open, making the money he'd paid for the key even more pointless than it already had been. There was a suitcase lying by the side of the door and, miracle of miracles, it didn't look like anyone else had been through it.

He opened the suitcase and grinned to himself. Well. At least he knew he was definitely in the right room. Without really knowing what he was looking for, he searched through the shiny shirts and frowned when he came across a compact pair of binoculars.

Instinctively he glanced over to the window. To the drapes that were pulled back just so, and the space a man could stand and observe without being seen. To the candy wrapper that he could see, pushed to the edge of the window sill. Huh.

* * *

Maybe it had been a mistake.

* * *

He crossed to the window and he stood behind the drapes, squinted through the binoculars and tried to guess what Rusty had been watching. There was a bar across the way. It was evening and the place still looked deserted. Practically boarded up. Obviously not doing very good business. And there wasn't a good view into the bar anyway, though he could see right into the office on the second floor.

The office with the computer on the desk that, even with his limited knowledge, looked like it cost about the same as the bar. The office with the large safe sitting in the corner that he could see every detail of.

He reached down and carefully smoothed out the creases in the candy wrapper.

* * *

Maybe it had been a mistake to drink the water.

* * *

He walked heavily back down the stairs. The bar. Maybe, the bar. If Rusty had been watching it – and even if that made sense, it was still a lot to take for granted - there could be someone there who knew something. Could be. There was a chance and he wanted to rush straight across the street, wanted to start demanding answers, start threatening. But the problem was, if they did have Rusty, or even if they knew where Rusty was, if he made too much noise, if they felt threatened, then if Rusty was still alive _(if, if, if) _they might kill him just to be on the safe side. He had to be careful and he had to be quick. And that was difficult.

He didn't even look round as he trudged across the lobby, trying to figure out his next best move. Not until the concierge called out to him in Spanish. And he didn't understand, and he almost kept walking, was almost certain in his knowledge that he didn't have the time to spare, but just as he reached the door, he turned round and gave the guy an impatient look.

The concierge held up a hand for him to wait, and Danny listened as he shook his head disapprovingly at the weather forecast, and honestly, who really gave a damn that tomorrow was shaping up to be the hottest day of the year? There were a thousand more important things right now, and he stood, in frustrated misery and waited until the concierge looked up with a smile.

"Thirty dollars gets you a look at the security tape," he repeated slowly, and this time Danny understood.

* * *

A mistake.

He was dying now, he knew that. Even if these ropes were to fall off him right now, he seriously doubted that he'd manage to stand, let alone walk to the door and get himself out of wherever the hell he was.

He was dying. He was dying alone in the dark and it _hurt._

And he'd drank the damned water and it hadn't helped; not really. He still felt just as thirsty as he had before. Still had the feeling like his throat was clogged with dust and sandpaper. And maybe his head was a little clearer, but he wasn't so sure that was a good thing. Meant he could feel it more. Meant he could feel his body breaking down. Meant he could feel his weakness.

He was dying, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. But he'd drank the water, and it hadn't helped, and maybe it had won him as much as another couple of hours. Another couple of hours alone, in the dark, in the heat, in the pain.

A slower death. That's what he'd struggled for.

It had been a mistake.

* * *

The footage was grey and blurry, obscured by static and almost impossible to make out. But he'd never have even thought that a place like this would have a security camera, so he chose not to complain too much.

He watched the men march across the lobby towards the door. There wasn't a single identifiable face. But even with the static, even with the blurry and the grey, he'd recognised Rusty instantly. Recognised him, surrounded and trapped. Recognised the stance, the set of the shoulder. Knowingly sauntering towards eternity, watching for any way to win out against the inevitable. He'd seen it so many times before, had walked beside it too many times before. They never lost. But sometimes they came damned close.

With a painful sigh, he turned his attention to the time display down at the bottom. Three days ago. And he blinked because, the time. It must have been a little while after they'd talked. After they'd argued.

He'd been angry about Rusty not calling back.

The guilt was hot and sharp and painful, and he had to push it down, bottle it up for the moment, because on the screen one of the men who had Rusty had pushed the hotel door open, and out of the door, across the street, Danny could just make out someone standing on the street corner.

A witness.

* * *

To hell with that.

No mistakes. Not like that.

He'd never believed in an afterlife. Never believed that there was going to be some happy reunion with old friends after he died. After they died. But if he was wrong, if, some time, many years from now, he came face to face with Danny again? He wanted to be able to look him in the eyes and promise that he'd fought for them with everything he had. He wanted to be able to promise that he'd never given up, not till his last breath. And if he couldn't do that, what had they ever been about?

To hell with a mistake; he was going down fighting to the best of his fading ability. And if these ropes fell off right now he'd crawl out of this hell, on his hands and knees if he had to.

Live forever or die in the attempt.

He was dying. And there was nothing he could do about that. Danny would find him. And there was nothing he could do about that. And Danny would be shattered and Danny would be crushed, and Danny would never be the same again, and there was _nothing_ he could do about that.

But there'd been a stupid fight, and he hadn't meant it, and maybe there was something he could do about that. Maybe there was a message he could leave.

Oh, there was a note. There was a note he'd left with Saul during the Al McGhee job, when he'd been so certain that he was going to join the choir invisible. Well, one of them had been going to. And _they_ weren't going to let it be Saul or Bobby, and _Rusty_ wasn't going to let it be Danny. And he'd never taken the note back, and he'd often wondered if Saul was holding two of them, but Saul would know when to hand it over. Twelve words, and he knew it would remind Danny that however it had happened, Rusty had been thinking of him. And he hadn't written 'thank you' and he hadn't written 'I love you' but he could trust that Danny would read them just the same.

Twelve words and it wasn't quite enough. He had strength enough for two more.

It was difficult but he managed to prop himself up on legs that screamed in protest. Managed to rest his weight on arms that trembled in protest. Managed to dig in the dirt with fingers already cracked and blistered and bleeding.

Two words.

Danny would find him.

* * *

There was a woman standing on the corner. Not so young, not so pretty, wearing a slinky red dress, and he stared and didn't care that it was rude, but he couldn't tell if she was the same woman from the tape.

She smiled as he approached, smiled and put her hands on her hips. "Hello there," she purred, in heavily accented English.

Danny flashed his most charming smile at her and watched as she started to pay him a little more attention. "Good afternoon, señorita," he began politely, in careful Spanish. "I am looking for a man."

She pouted slightly. "Two streets over," she told him, with a laugh.

For a second Danny thought they had a translation error. Then he replayed the conversation in his head and caught up. "A particular man," he clarified. "He was taken out of that hotel three days ago. With other men."

"I see a lot of men," she said, with a shrug.

He should have a photo. Why didn't he have a photo? "This one you would remember," he said patiently, and frowned. "If you noticed him," he added, and not for the first time he cursed the fact that Rusty was quite so talented. "He is my height. American like me. He has blond hair and blue eyes and he is very beautiful." She looked thoughtful. Danny felt a stab of hope. "And he would be wearing . . . " His mind went blank. Stupidly, his mind went blank. He pointed at his own shirt. " . . . bright and surprising."

She grinned at him, but there was speculation in her eyes. "I have seen this man," she allowed. "He was staying in the hotel. I saw him a few times."

"Three days ago?" Danny demanded quickly.

"Ten dollars," she said, holding out her hand and looking him in the eyes.

He gave her fifty without even thinking about it and her eyes widened. "He means a lot to you, this man?" she asked slowly.

Danny nodded tightly, not trusting himself to speak.

"I am sorry," she began and Danny could feel himself start to tremble. "The men he was with, they are not nice men. They work for a man who is not at all nice."

"Manoso," Danny managed to say, and she glared at him and her eyes travelled over to the bar opposite the hotel.

"Some names it is not good to say too loud," she scolded. "You are lucky the Americans are gone."

"My friend," he said hoarsely. "What do you know?"

She glanced between him and the bar and seemed to make up her mind. Danny tried his best to follow the torrent of rapid, whispered Spanish, but he couldn't understand most of it, and the bits that he could. . . the bits that he could came close to destroying him.

He understood "angry".

He understood "shouting".

He understood "gun" and he understood "fell" and he understood "blood".

And he understood that this was the ending, that this was the final, that this was the destruction of everything important.

He felt his legs buckle under him.

* * *

The pain was fading. The thirst didn't seem so very important anymore.

There was only the darkness.

He closed his eyes and slept. Just for a little while.

* * *

**Hope you're still enjoying this. Next chapter could be a couple of days. Or it could be tomorrow. I'm trying to keep the mystery alive.**


	6. Chapter 6

Dimly he heard the woman swear, dimly he felt her hands supporting him and dragging him over to the wall.

He found himself sitting on a step, looking up at her expression of concern. "He's dead," he said, stupidly. "They shot him."

There was confusion on her face and then she shook her head rapidly. "They did not shoot him," she said slowly and emphatically, and this time he understood. "They did not shoot him."

"What happened?" he asked, once he'd managed to get his breathing under control. "Slowly, please, señorita."

This time she mimed along to her story. "Your friend walked out of the hotel. The men were all around him. They were walking to a car. Two of them were talking to each other. They were laughing. The leader turned round and told them to stop and your friend shoved the man closest to him into the others and then started running."

Danny nodded. He could picture it. Could see what unfolded. "Then what?" he asked, dreading the answer.

She shrugged. "They ran after him. They were shouting. They were angry. The leader caught up with him, and he had his gun out and he . . . " She mimed someone swinging a gun. She mimed someone bringing a gun down across _Rusty's_ head. "Your friend fell. There was a lot of blood and he was not moving. They laughed and they dragged him over to the car and they put him in the trunk. Then they drove off."

Danny stared across the street and watched it play out, and he couldn't do a thing to stop it. He hadn't been there. They had chased Rusty and they had hit him and they had put him in the trunk of a car and driven him to who knew where, and Danny hadn't been there.

"A little while later, the Americans return. Your friend is not with them. They go into the bar and they leave again almost immediately. They don't come back." She paused and looked at him, almost kindly. "They are bad people," she repeated.

He turned and stared at her. "He's my friend." He understood what she was trying to tell him. He'd understood what Juan was trying to tell him. It didn't make a difference.

She sighed. "The men were Americans, and they left. But their driver was a local man. Name of Richei Vasquez."

Danny's eyes were dark "Where can I find him?"

"Ah . . . " she shrugged. "He could be lots of places. He has many girlfriends. There is a bar, three streets over with green windows and a red sign. I would start there."

There was something. There was some hope, some chance and he was going to take it. He stood up and smiled at her. "Thank you . . . " he began, enquiringly.

She smiled openly at him. "Carlota My name is Carlota And I hope you find your enamarado."

He nodded. "Thank you, Carlota"

* * *

_The sun shone down on the Strip and he wandered down the middle of the deserted street, looking for Danny, needing to find Danny, needing to tell him that he was dying, needing to tell him that he wasn't quite finished yet, and he was sure that Danny was just ahead of him, was sure that Danny was just out of reach but there was no one in sight, Vegas was a ghost town, except there was something behind him, there was something following him and he couldn't see it because whatever it was it was darkness so he couldn't see it in the sunlight, but it was following him and he could hear it, and then the streets were full of people, full of everyone he knew and none of them were looking at him, and he couldn't get their attention and he stepped in between Basher and Saul and Reuben and he couldn't speak, but he was standing right in front of them and they just looked through him like he didn't exist and he needed them to tell him where Danny was, but they couldn't see him, they didn't know he was there, and he heard them mention Danny's name but no matter how hard he listened he couldn't understand what they were saying, and the thing in the darkness was getting closer, he could hear the scraping of claws just behind him, and he ran, he had to ran, and he pushed through the crowd, and they still didn't even notice him, and then Danny was in front of him and Danny was looking right through him, smiling and greeting someone behind him and the thing in the darkness was right there, and he could feel it breathing and desperately he reached out, tried to grab Danny's arm, and watched in horror as his hand passed right through, as if he was a ghost._

He woke up with a start. He'd thought . . . he'd thought he'd heard something.

There was something moving in the dark.

There was something looking at him.

Claws on dirt and quick breathing.

Something.

He had to stay awake.

* * *

The bar had fallen silent as soon as he walked in. He sat down and smiled and bought drinks and listened and talked.

No one had even heard of Richei Vasquez. For an hour, for two hours, no one had even heard of Richei Vasquez and Danny kept smiling and bought drinks like it was his last night alive and didn't let even the first hint of the fear and desperation show on his face.

He was looking for Richei. Richei had come recommended and he might be able to put some work his way. Might be able to put some money his way.

He smiled and sold the lie like it was the most important he'd ever spun.

* * *

The noise came again. Louder. From the other side. He lay perfectly still and tried not to shake. The thirst and the pain were still raging through him, but more than that, far more than that, there was the fear.

Somewhere close behind him he heard it and he tried to yell, tried to kick out, but his throat was too hoarse, was too full of dust, was too dry and he couldn't make a sound, and he couldn't move, didn't have the strength and his body wouldn't do what he wanted anymore.

He felt it skitter past his hands. Felt the pressure of movement and the briefest touch of revulsion. With a strength that came solely from desperation he rolled over and the noise ripped from his raw and aching throat was somewhere past a scream, and it melted helplessly into a dry sob as he heard the angry squeaking, heard the claws scrabbling away from him. For the moment.

Not while he was still alive. Please. Oh, God, please, not while he was still alive.

* * *

Two hours and people started to have heard of Richei. Three hours and a couple of people had seen him earlier that evening. Four hours and people knew a few places he might be found. Five hours and he had a list of addresses.

Of course, inside, Danny had started screaming after barely ten minutes.

* * *

There was silence. Perhaps it had gone. Perhaps it had given up.

He thought, stupidly, of the rat that had been in their apartment once. A long time ago. A very long time ago, when they'd been kids, just starting out. The woman next door had had . . . interesting . . . ideas about hygiene and cleanliness, and one day they'd come home from a night full of luck and skill, of decadence and opulence and a mark that had no idea he was being conned, and they'd stood in the living room, in their evening dress, his hand on the lightswitch, Danny holding the briefcase of crisp, new money, and they'd stared at the rat on the sofa for a very long time.

They'd moved immediately. Never gone back to that apartment again. They'd barely waited long enough to go through the place, armed with the nearest blunt objects that came to hand, gathering up the few items he had, and the rather more Danny had, that were of sentimental value.

There had been a hotel, a bottle of whisky a whole freezers worth of ice-cream, and they'd spent the rest of the night arguing about exactly which of them had screamed like a little girl.

He hadn't been frightened then. But Danny had made it better anyway.

There was a noise in the darkness. He shivered. Why wasn't Danny here now?

* * *

It was long past midnight and Danny was knocking on doors, waking up the frightened and the confused and demanding to know where Richei was.

He was throwing money around like it was confetti, with the promise of so much more to come if only he could speak to Richei. The job he had planned was urgent. Couldn't possibly wait. And he needed to speak to Richei, right there and then.

Every step he was met with denials and stonewalling. But as he walked away, sometimes he could hear the conversations break out behind him. The interest. The speculation.

He could only hope that they were going to tell Richei.

He could only hope that Richei would be interested.

* * *

It brushed past his hair and he jerked his head aside . . . he _thought_ it brushed past his hair, and he could feel his scalp crawl but the next second he wasn't sure if that had happened or if he'd just imagined it, and he wasn't sure if he'd managed to move at all and it was getting harder to focus, he could feel himself drifting. He had to keep it together. He had to stay . . .

_(He had to stay awake and he had to stay alive for Danny, because he'd promised, there'd been a promise, implied in everything they'd ever done, everything they'd ever been, every time he'd ever looked at Danny he'd promised that he wouldn't leave Danny alone, but Danny had promised that he wouldn't leave Rusty alone in the same never-whisper and Rusty was alone now, he was alone and he was dying and he was so frightened, and Danny wasn't here so he had to stay awake because the one thing he would never would never never would betray Danny because Danny was everything and he had to stay _awake_.) _

. . . _awake. _He snapped back to himself, convinced that it was just inches from his stomach and he rolled over, rolled away, and screamed inside his head as his body protested. Pain. Pain on pain on pain, and the world faded to a different shade of dark.

* * *

The sun was rising and he was out of leads. Out of addresses. Seemed as though Richei had friends and family in almost every neighbourhood in the city, and Danny was almost certain he'd spoken to them all. He'd spoken to them all and he was exactly nowhere.

He stared back at the building he'd just walked out of. What did he do now?

The bar. Manoso's people; there must be someone left. Someone who knew something, and it meant that they would know someone was looking, and that could mean . . . oh, Rusty.

He rubbed at his eyes and the exhaustion, the failure, was eating away at his soul. So they'd know someone was looking. At this stage it probably didn't . . .

His lips were dry. He swallowed harshly. It mattered. It mattered a great deal.

There was a tugging on his sleeve, and he looked down to see a young girl smiling shyly at him. He recognised her. Two, three doors ago? More? He didn't know. She pushed a note into his hand, smiled again and skipped off.

He unfolded the scrap of paper.

_Casa de Deslumbrar. 0800._

His hands were trembling. A chance.

* * *

A weight on his leg and he couldn't move, the sound of snuffling, harsh, excited breathing, and little pinpricks of claws as it scrabbled over him, running over his thigh, his groin, onto his stomach, chest and the feeling of its little feet as they slid over silk and it disgusted him and it terrified him and he couldn't move and he couldn't make a sound, and he could feel its breath on his face now, could smell it, the smell of rotting meat and death, so close to death, hot and rank and he tried to jerk his body, tried to throw it off, and all he managed to do was turn his head and he felt sharp, jagged, needle like teeth scrape the flesh at his jaw, just under his ear, and a scream was ripped from him, loud and inhuman and he must have moved, must have jumped, hard and violent, because he felt the jarring pain as he fell back to the ground, and the rat's cry was as loud as his, anger and outrage, and there was pain, sharp and awful and unbearable, as it bit hard into his stomach, tearing at him, ripping flesh, and somehow, somehow, he managed to jerk his knees upwards, and the pain of _that, _was enough that he thought he was going to pass out, but he managed to jerk his knees up and hit the rat hard, and there was another outburst of angry squeaking and then there was nothing, and he rolled onto his stomach, curled around the pain as best he could, and he sobbed into the dust.

* * *

Half seven and he slid into the booth opposite the handsome little man. There was a long silence while Danny watched him shovel his way through a plate piled high with food. And a comparison occurred only to be pushed aside immediately. Contrary to widely held opinion, Rusty was extremely fussy about what he ate. It was just that his definition of what made a proper diet was out of synch with the rest of the world.

"You're early," the man commented at last, between mouthfuls. His English was surprisingly good.

Danny nodded. "Richei Vasquez, I presume?" It had been a reasonable guess. They were the only ones in the bar.

"Yeah," Richei grinned. "And you are?"

"Sy Silverman," Danny introduced himself. He didn't offer his hand.

"Nice to meet you," Richei said cheerfully. "You been looking pretty hard for me. And I got to tell you; I don't want your job. The people I work for aren't - "

" - I'm not offering you a job." Danny's voice was level. "I'm looking for information."

Richei looked up sharply. "Then I can't help you."

"You can," Danny corrected. "Four days ago. The Ruisenor. Some of Manoso's men took another man somewhere. You did the driving."

Richei gave a disinterested shrug and resumed eating. "That is not unusual. I do a lot of driving."

"This was different," Danny said flatly. "This man was locked in the trunk." And he hated the reminder, hated the words, hated the picture that formed in his head, the feelings. Rusty. Unconscious and stuffed in a car trunk. Hurt. Alone. _Frightened._

"That's not so unusual either," Richei commented, showing a mouthful of food.

Danny pushed down his immediate howl of outrage. "I want to find him. I need to find him. And you're going to help me."

Richei raised an eyebrow. "No. I'm not." He sounded calm. Certain. And Danny was desperate. And he wasn't going to take no for an answer. "The people I work for expect loyalty and discretion. I am honoured to provide them."

Danny produced an envelope and shoved it across the table. Enough money to buy, oh, probably half the street. It had been a busy couple of hours. And he'd been sure it would be enough, because all the people he'd talked to, all of Richei's friends and family, their eyes had lit up at the money he'd been offering and he'd been sure that Richei would be no different. But it was all for nothing, because Richei didn't even glance at it. He just laughed scornfully. "You know nothing about loyalty."

"You can't even begin to imagine," Danny said in a low voice. He leaned forwards over the table. "Take the money, Richei. It's better than the alternative."

Somewhere, there was Rusty. Somewhere in the world, there was Rusty and this man, this man knew where.

Richei laughed again and laid his fork down on the table carefully. "Careful, señor," he warned. "That sounded like a threat."

"It was," Danny agreed. "Take the money. Tell me what I need to know."

"You think you frighten me?" Richei shook his head and the disbelief, the dismissal was obvious. He pressed his hand against the table and leaned forwards, towards Danny and his words were soft. "Do you know the people I work for? You are nothing. And if I knew where this friend of yours was, I would never tell you."

Danny listened to the ring of truth in Richei's words and the unthinking and the desperation rose up inside him. He could taste his own fear. Could taste his own fury and he reached out and grabbed Richei's fork and stabbed it into the back of Richei's hand. Stabbed between the knuckles and pushed and twisted until he felt the crack of bone.

Richei screamed.

"Look at me," Danny ordered, low and intense. "Look at my eyes."

Shaking, Richei complied. "You _crazy . . . " _he whimpered.

Danny chose not to dispute that. "Who are you more frightened of right now?" he asked pleasantly, and twisted the fork a little more and he didn't look down to see the blood flow.

Richei sobbed and all the arrogance had melted away. "You. You."

"That's right," Danny agreed. "Where's my friend?"

"Two hours out of town! East! The old Santos estate." There were tears, of pain and shame and fear, and Danny didn't feel guilty.

With his free hand, Danny reached into his pocket and dug out a map. Awkwardly he spread it over the table. "Show me."

There was a look of wild disbelief in Richei's eyes, but he scanned the map carefully and finally stabbed a finger. "There! There!"

Danny nodded and memorised. "If you're lying to me . . . " he warned.

"I'm not! I swear I'm not!" Richei cried, and Danny believed him.

"Where _exactly_?" he asked, frowning at the map, because that was a lot of ground to cover, and anything, any way he could get to Rusty faster, he had to know.

Richei shook his head frantically. "I don't know. I promise! I'm just the driver, okay? They don't tell me. I'm just the driver. I drive them, I drive your friend to the gate, they haul him out of the trunk, he's still not moving, and they drag him through the gate and a little while later they come back and he isn't with them. That's all I know. I'm just a driver. I just follow orders."

Danny looked at him with disgust and pulled the fork back with an audible sucking noise. With an internal shudder of distaste, he dropped it onto the floor as Richei snatched his bloodied hand back and cradled it against his chest.

Rusty. He was close now. They were nearly home. _Just a little while longer, Rus', _he promised.

He turned to walk out the door and stopped when he heard Richei's voice, trembling with anger and defiance. "They dragged him inside and he didn't come back. Your friend's dead, fucker. He's worm food."

Danny stopped and turned round slowly. He looked Richei in the eyes and felt a dim sort of pleasure when Richei shrank back. "If he is, I will come back for you, do you understand? I will come back for you and for your employers and there is nothing in the world that can stop me. I will fall upon you like the wrath of God and when I am finished there will be nothing left."

He could actually hear Richei trembling as he walked away. "If I were you," he called over his shoulder. "I'd start praying for my friend's good health. He's all that stands between you and death."


	7. Chapter 7

**This was meant to be the first half of a single chapter. Didn't happen that way. This is because I am not a nice person. On the other hand, this whole fic was meant to be a one shot. Yeah. Nineteen thousand words and counting. Still. Could be worse.**

* * *

The rat had gone. The room was getting hot again. Hotter and hotter and hotter. He wasn't sweating. His tongue was leather against his lips. He had to fight every moment for the strength to take the next breath, and each one scoured at his throat and lungs just that little bit more.

The rat had gone. When the temperature started to rise. Probably had to sleep or something; rats were nocturnal, weren't they? He thought, maybe, he'd seen that in a nature program once. Or else Rizzo had said so.

(_Hoffman? Danny asked with a frown, somewhere, and Rusty grinned and talked of Muppets._

_Hoffman made a lousy conman anyway._

_Rusty never looked good in hats._

_Hoffman died with his best friend beside him.)_

The rat had gone, and Rusty had wanted to try and find where it had left, because maybe, maybe there was a way out, maybe he could force his way out somehow. But when he tried to move, he couldn't, and the pain and the dizziness swept through him, and he couldn't think anymore.

The rat had gone. When it got hot. Probably it wouldn't be back till nightfall. Probably it wouldn't matter by then.

The rat had gone. He couldn't remember what that meant.

Gone.

* * *

Danny managed to get outside the bar before the shaking started and the world started swimming in front of his eyes.

_(Rusty)_

The wall was cool against his back and he gripped the edge of the door frame with his fingers. Probably, it was the only thing keeping him upright. He tried not to think about the look in Richei's eyes - the pain, the horror, the terror. Tried not to think about the feeling as the flesh had given way beneath him, the sickening sensation as metal slipped over bone. And he tried not to think about what he would have done if Richei hadn't chosen to cooperate, what he knew would have happened next. Tried not to give any thought to the little part of him that was always planning. The part that had already been considering how easy it would be to push the table backwards. How quick he could be on his feet. How fast he could find himself towering over Richei. The part that could see his hand grabbing Richei's hair, yanking Richei's head back. Could see himself pressing the fork just to the edge of Richei's eye socket. Could hear himself asking the question One More Time_._ Could see himself _pushing_ and could imagine the noise and the feeling and the knowledge of it all.

_(Rusty)_

He took a deep breath and the world wavered, and he found himself bent over, throwing up noisily.

There was nothing he wouldn't do for Rusty. Nothing Rusty wouldn't do for him. There were no limits between them. Lying, cheating and stealing went without saying. Dying - in a heartbeat. Killing - it had never been necessary, but he was sure he wouldn't hesitate, knew Rusty wouldn't. And _this,_ and he remembered the look in Rusty's eyes, oh, five, six years ago now, in Memphis. He'd been bandaging Danny's arm and Danny hadn't been able to take his eyes off Rusty's knuckles, split and bleeding. It had taken nearly a week of sleepless nights and whisky and evasion and nightmares before Rusty had agreed he needed to talk.

_(Rusty)_

There were no limits. There were no regrets. And they didn't stop, ever.

He stood up, wiped his mouth and looked round the street. He was going to find Rusty.

_(Gone.)_

_

* * *

_

There was part of him – the irrational, primal part of him, the part that was needy and screaming for water and daylight and rest and no more pain, the part of him that was hurting, the part of him that was _afraid_ – there was a part of him that sometimes hated Danny a little. Because Danny wasn't here. And he hated that part of himself. Hated it with a frightening intensity as it tried to ruin everything he cared about. Yes, he was hurting. Yes, he was frightened. Yes, he was alone, but he wanted to resent Danny _now_? For not being here _now_, when they'd already had . . . they'd had everything. For so long, they'd had everything. Danny was . . . he'd never had to ask for anything more. And if Danny _knew. _Oh, if Danny knew he was here and alone and in pain with the dust and the _heat;_ the heat and the thirst; if Danny _knew_ he'd give everything to be here. Give anything to make it all just that bit better.

And it would be better if Danny was here. Everything always hurt less when Danny was there. But if Danny was here now, then that would mean that Danny was with him, in the heat and in the the thirst and in the pain. And that would hurt so much worse.

So it was good. Good that he was alone. Good that Danny wasn't here.

_(He wished Danny was here.)_

_

* * *

_

He took the first car he saw and unconsciously wrinkled his nose when he stepped inside. It was full of junk. Old newspapers, scrunched up food wrappers, empty bottles of juice, and god knows what else lined the floor. Terrific. But it had a full tank of gas and was simple enough to hotwire, and what more did he want? What more did he need?

_(Rusty)_

He studied the map carefully, pointed the car in the right direction and floored it.

* * *

Fire. He was on fire. Was burning up; he was sure of it. If it wasn't so dark, he'd be able to see the flames. It was so hot, and he hurt so much, and he ached with the need for water, for cool, for rest, and he was on fire.

It hurt and there wasn't any more than this. The world was reduced to the heat, to the pain, to the ache and the _need_, and to the thought of Danny.

And bit by bit, one by one, they all burned away until there was nothing.

* * *

The trick was to keep driving and not let himself think. Or, if he had to think, keep thinking about the road, and how nice the scenery was, and about the look on Saul's face back in March, when the accountant had jumped out of the cake. (_What would he say to Saul?) _He could even think about the look on Richei's face as he cradled his hand. If he wanted to. That was okay. He could think about anything except the fact that four days ago, Rusty had been driven off to the middle of nowhere, and he'd been nowhere in the world since then.

_(Powerful and dangerous and very upset . . . )_

Danny was going to find him. He was.

_(...the ones that are, mostly they are found in pieces.)_

Alive. Danny was going to find him alive.

_(Your friend's wormfood)_

It had only been four days. He'd spoken _(argued)_ with Rusty four days ago. Only four days. Nothing could have happened in that time.

_(He's dead.)_

* * *

The fly crawled slowly over his open eye. He didn't move.

* * *

The sun beat down hard on Danny's back as he leapt out of the car and stared at the gates. They were rusted shut and overgrown with weeds, and the driveway beyond was cracked and impassable. For a moment he wondered if Richei had sent him to the wrong place, stupidly trusting, perhaps, that Danny wouldn't find him. Then his eyes lit on the side gate, and that was well oiled and the padlock was new enough to still have a shine to it. Naturally he made short work of it, and, with his eyes fixed firmly on the roof of the ruined house in the distance, he ignored the drive and set off through the woods.

That was how he found the graves.

He _thought_ they were graves. He knew they were. Knew it.

There were twelve of them, in a clearing. Unmarked mounds of earth, mostly grown over with grass and weeds. Mostly. There was one that looked more recent. A lot more recent. And that was the one that caught his attention. That was the one he was standing over, staring, shaking, wondering.

(_Not Rusty, not Rusty, not Rusty, no, no, no, no, no!_)

Four days. Four days and Rusty was . . . no. No, it couldn't be. He was being ridiculous. Impossible. Not Rusty. Couldn't be, because this grave, this grave had the beginnings of grass growing on it. Just a suggestion of green poking through. And that would take longer to show. He thought. Wouldn't it?

Insanely, he found himself thinking back to when he was a kid, mowing the lawn on a Saturday morning and he couldn't think how fast it grew back in.

No. No, this wasn't Rusty because _this wasn't Rusty_. And that was all he needed to remember.

He looked back to the rooftop. Rusty would be there. Rusty would be waiting for him and Danny mustn't keep him waiting. Not any longer than he already had.

* * *

_(. . . . . )_

* * *

The house was falling down. Must have been deserted for a decade or more and Danny wandered from room to room, screaming Rusty's name, begging for an answer.

He started in the basement and worked his way up. He searched every inch of every room. Looked for any trace that anyone had been there recently. There was no sign. No nothing. No Rusty.

An hour, perhaps more, perhaps, and he stood in the attic, his hands bleeding, his ankle throbbing from where he'd put his foot through a rotten floorboard on the second floor. He'd fallen and he'd lain, choking in the dust, and the sound had echoed around the empty house.

The empty house. He took one last, long look around the attic. There was no one here. There'd been no one here for a very long time.

It was time to face reality.

Four days ago, Rusty had been taken. Four days ago, Rusty had been taken here. And . . . and there would have been pain, Danny was almost sure of it. There would have been pain and Rusty had been alone. The thought forced him to his knees, and the moan tore through him. Rusty. Alone. In pain.

But it was over now. It had been over four days ago.

Reality.

* * *

_(. . . . . )_

* * *

He knelt next to the fresh grave and the tears fell on his trembling hand as it brushed over the earth.

"Rus' . . . " he whispered. "Rusty . . . " And there were a thousand things he wanted to say, things around _sorry _and _love _and _why _and _please_ but there weren't any words, there weren't any thoughts, there was just the feeling, vast and hollow and overwhelming every inch of his soul.

He had to find a shovel.

* * *

**So tempted to write 'The End' right there. Just because. **


	8. Chapter 8

**This is the penultimate chapter! I've nearly finished something. Be at least a little impressed . . . yeah, yeah, I know, you'll believe it when you see it.**

* * *

Slowly he got to his feet and stood, swaying in the colourless world. It took an effort. Being alive took an effort. Being alone . . . For a long moment he stared down at the grave (_at Rusty_) and he almost resisted apologising for needing to leave.

"I'll be back," he promised, and somewhere, Rusty rolled his eyes and laughed and said _'Whatever you say, Arnie,' _and Danny smiled and tasted salt on his lips.

No time for that.

He had to find a shovel.

He had to be certain.

And he wasn't going to leave Rusty alone here.

Weary to the bone, exhausted in a way he would never have been able to imagine before, he headed away from the house, back towards the driveway. Hopefully he could find something to dig with and he wouldn't have to go back to town. Then he could . . . then he'd . . . then he _could. _He paused, for a moment, as the emptiness screamed its way through him. He had to. Had to know. And then, afterwards . . . he didn't know what happened afterwards. Didn't matter anymore.

He crossed the driveway and found himself on an overgrown lawn. Aimlessly he followed a trail through the knee high grass. Had to be something. He wanted to fall here. He wanted to fall and sleep and wake up back home with Tess and Rusty sleeping beside him. Absently he listened to himself laugh; somehow he thought that he'd be the only one happy with that particular sleeping arrangement.

In the distance he caught sight of a little metal outbuilding. Looked like it had been emptied; there was a pile of tools and machinery lying outside. Might be a shovel there, and conveniently the flattened grass led right to it . . .

The world stopped.

He was running before he even knew what was happening. Even as he was screaming at himself, that he didn't know anything, that he was overreacting, that it was wishful thinking and blind optimism talking, he was running faster than he ever had in his life and he didn't slow down when he reached the door. Probably it hurt, when he crashed into it at full tilt. He'd never know. Certainly he didn't bother even thinking about stopping and picking the lock, or even checking it was open. He just threw himself at it, and when it didn't immediately give way, he backed up and threw himself at it again and he felt it give way against his shoulder, and he shoved it open with obscene haste and the hope hurt almost more than the yawning emptiness.

As soon as the door was open he was met with a rush of hot, stuffy air and he almost had to step back. Like opening the door of an oven. Still, he stepped into the doorway and peered into the little room, squinting desperately into the darkness until he saw the body.

* * *

There was noise and there was light and then there was Danny and with glacier-like speed the thoughts started to drift into his mind.

Danny was there.

Framed against the almost blinding light.

Danny.

And that was good. Always. Except he could see Danny's face. He could see Danny's eyes. And he didn't know what Danny was looking at, didn't know what had happened, but there was loss and devastation and pain beyond everything, and something had hurt Danny. Something had hurt Danny really badly and that meant that Rusty had to do something, had to fix it because he couldn't leave Danny hurting.

He blinked, and tried to ask Danny what was wrong, but there was something wrong, he couldn't even open his mouth, and all he could manage was an almost inaudible moan.

* * *

For a long couple of seconds, he'd been _sure . . . _in the dim light he'd seen Rusty's face, pale and drawn and streaked with blood and dirt, and he'd seen Rusty's eyes, open and dull and unblinking, and more than that, far more than that, there'd been none of the indescribable, the unthinking, the private world they shared, it had been gone, it had been empty and he'd been _sure, _and the loss and the defeat and the oblivion had threatened to overwhelm him again.

Then Rusty blinked, and moaned, and suddenly there'd been pain and confusion, but above that, overriding that, there'd been the knowledge of Danny, and in less than a heartbeat he'd been kneeling down beside Rusty and he'd seen the ropes, seen the way Rusty had been bound and left to die, and the fury had been screaming through him, even as his hand had been stroking Rusty's hair, caressing Rusty's cheek, convincing himself that Rusty was real and alive, even as he searched frantically through his jacket for his pocket knife. Not there. Airline security. Fuck.

"I'm here, Rus'," he promised. "I'm here now, and I swear I'll be right back. But I need to find something to cut those ropes with, okay?"

There was no answer. But Rusty was looking at him and he had to take that as understanding and agreement, because no matter that everything in him screamed not to leave Rusty alone, not to let go even for a second, it was more important that he got Rusty out of here as soon as possible.

He stumbled outside and hunted frantically through the pile of tools until he came across a spare blade for a circular saw. Not ideal, far from ideal, but he could be careful, he would be careful, and he didn't want to spend any more time than he had to. He ran back inside and knelt back down beside Rusty.

Rusty's eyes were closed.

Danny had to wait a long couple of seconds before he was confident Rusty was still breathing.

"Wake up," he insisted. "Come on, Rus', you know how long I've been looking for you? You can't fall asleep now, it's rude."

Slowly, Rusty opened his eyes and blinked at Danny.

"That's good," Danny said approvingly, and his hand ran absently through Rusty's hair and he grimaced at the ugly gash on Rusty's forehead, red, hot and angry. Not good. Teeth gritted, he turned his attention to the ropes. Even in the gloom, he could make out how swollen Rusty's hands and feet were, could see the damage done to Rusty's fingers, the bloodied mess his wrists and ankles were in. His mouth set in a line; Harry Houdini couldn't have got out of these ropes and that hadn't stopped Rusty from trying. "Need you to stay still now, okay?" he asked pointlessly, desperately aware of the fact that there'd been very little evidence that Rusty was capable of doing otherwise. Exhaustion. Dehydration. He told himself that Rusty would be fine. He'd been in time.

He set to work, carefully, very, very, carefully, cutting through the ropes and he couldn't help but think.

Four days. Rusty had spent four days in this little metal hell. Alone. With the heat, with the dust. Four days without food. Without water. Without being able to move. The very idea was more than Danny knew how to stand.

The last of the rope frayed away in Danny's hands, and Rusty's limbs twisted out of their unnatural position, and he _screamed, _hoarse and inhuman, and Danny was left holding him tightly until the muscles spasms died down, trying to smooth through the pain that he'd give anything to be able to take away.

* * *

There was pain again, lots of pain, but now there was Danny, and in some way he'd never be able to describe, it hurt less. It mattered less. It was less.

With an effort - monumental and maybe a little stupid, since it started the pickaxe clawing into his skull all over again – he managed to lift his head and look up, and through willpower alone, he managed to force his eyes to focus on Danny.

Danny had found him. And that was impossible, that was clearly impossible, and he had to tell Danny that, because the guilt and fear and misery were whispering their way right through Danny.

He managed to force his cracked lips apart, and almost managed to suppress the moan that followed. Hurt.

* * *

"D'nny," Rusty moaned and what could Danny do but kiss his hair gently.

"I'm here," he promised again, and his voice was steady and his heart was pounding. "I'm here now."

He should have been here earlier. He should have been here four days ago. He should never have left Rusty on his own, not even once, not even for a second.

"We need to get you out of here, okay?" They needed to get Rusty to a hospital. "I'm going to have to carry you, and I don't want any arguments." He got an arm under Rusty's shoulders and another under his knees, and with a grunt, staggered upright. "Or," he added, remembering Tanya Rivera and a scene of almost unsurpassed embarrassment, "Any cute lines about being the blushing bride." He thought some more and concentrated on getting Rusty into the easiest position to carry. "And don't ask if my back's up to it."

There was something that might have been a laugh and might have been a sob and Danny's panic was still safely under control.

Cradling Rusty tightly to his chest, taking comfort in the feeling of Rusty breathing against him, he carefully stepped towards the door. And stopped. A little way away, he could see scratches in the dirt floor where someone – where Rusty – had tried to write. He thought about the state of Rusty's hands, thought about Rusty lying in the dark, writing with his arms tied behind his back and he bit hard into his tongue.

Two words. And the letters were shaky, were scrawled on top of each other, and he shouldn't have been able to read them. But he could.

Two words. _'Danny'_ and _'Sorry'_.

And he thought about the argument, the stupid, pointless, argument, but he knew that wasn't all of it, and he could scream for what Rusty felt the need to apologise for with what might have been his dying strength.

They weren't meant to be alone.

He stood staring at the writing for a long second.

Two words.

_Sorry Danny_

* * *

He lay still and listened to Danny's heartbeat and for a few moments everything was about as good as he could remember, and then, suddenly there was pain and sensation and someone was shining a flashlight in his face, and his eyes were melting, and it was too bright, there was too much light and it hurt his eyes, Danny, please, it hurt.

* * *

As soon as he stepped outside Rusty moaned and screwed his eyes tight shut and twisted his head round desperately, burying his face in Danny's chest. Startled, Danny stopped and then he realised and cursed himself. Four days in that little building, and it had been dark enough with the door open. When it was shut, it must have been pitch black.

"Keep your eyes closed," he told Rusty. "It'll be all right. Everything will be all right, just hang on, okay?"

Moving as fast as he could, he carried Rusty back over the lawn and down the cracked driveway, back to the gates, back to the car. Gently, he sat Rusty down on the ground and felt the cold, hard anxiety as Rusty's head immediately slumped forwards, and there was pain and exhaustion and Rusty was at the very edge of understanding. Automatically, Danny's hand slipped into his jacket pocket and gently he slid his sunglasses onto Rusty's face. Anything, any chance to make any of it even a little bit better.

Rusty didn't raise his head. Couldn't. "D'nny. S'water?" And Danny winced, at the plea, at the harshness and the crack in Rusty's voice, at his own helplessness. Four days. And the heat in that room. And he had nothing to offer.

"We don't . . . " he began and then he stopped. Maybe. Maybe, possibly, there was a chance, and he yanked the car door open and frantically searched amongst the debris on the floor. Please, please, please. He came up with little bottle of water, maybe a quarter full. And it was hot, and God knew how long it had been lying there, but it had to be better than nothing. And there was nothing else.

Hands trembling a little, he held it up to Rusty's mouth, and he ached inside at the cracked and raw flesh at Rusty's lips, at the swollen, bloodied tongue that darted out at the first drop of liquid.

"You can't have too much," he warned, "You'll make yourself sick," and he knew that Rusty didn't understand and he hated himself.

* * *

There was water, and for a while he forgot everything else as he sucked and gulped, desperately, as the coolness trailed over his aching tongue, for the first time in so long and it tore his throat and it burned his stomach, but it didn't matter because he needed it, he needed it and then suddenly it was taken away, and he didn't understand, he didn't . . .

* * *

As soon as Danny took the bottle away, Rusty choked and threw up the couple of mouthfuls Danny had allowed him.

Fuck. They needed to be at the hospital right now. He didn't even want to think about what that meant.

He picked Rusty up again and got him into the passenger seat of the car, as quickly and comfortably as he could. Rusty's head lolled to the side, and Danny frowned as he caught sight of the wound on Rusty's jaw. It almost looked like . . . it looked like teeth marks. Animal teeth marks. With a growing feeling of horror his eyes travelled to the tiny little tears in Rusty's shirt, and the bloodstained rip, and carefully he pulled the shirt aside and he looked at the vicious bite on Rusty's stomach, and he _imagined, _and he had to fight down the fury and the nausea and the terror.

Quickly he ran round, and he slid into the driver's seat, glanced over at Rusty and impulsively reached over and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm here," he whispered. "I'm here, and I need you to stay with me. Please, Rus'. Stay with me."

* * *

He was with Danny.

Everything was good.

* * *

**So, hope you enjoyed. Last chapter . . . in the near future.**


	9. Chapter 9

**This chapter is dedicated to InSilva. For support, for suggestions, for encouragement, for reading it, for liking it, and for the infrequent bursts of screaming and profanity and profoundity. Thanks, mate. ;)**

**Now! This story is finished at long last. A month ago I said it would take about a week. Yes. Well. Did anyone really take me seriously? It is also a nine chapter one shot. Which is also less than impressive. And it's the first multichapter fic I've finished since June 2008. June 2008! What's _that_ about? Anyway, I hope you like it.**

* * *

He'd spoken constantly on the drive to the hospital. Didn't know what he'd said. Everything. Anything. He'd described the scenery that flew past, he'd mused on exactly how many local traffic laws they might be breaking, he'd reminisced about old times and new times and never-times, he'd proudly explained step by step the process for setting the timer on his new VCR and then, two seconds later, had guiltily admitted that Tess had needed to show him how. Not that that made him any less of a man, he hastened to add. He never got any response. But that didn't matter. Knowingly and frantically, he kept talking long after he saw Rusty was asleep.

They'd been alone for four days and he was frightened by the hush, frightened by the crushing weight of four days in silence and darkness, frightened.

So he talked. And Rusty was deathly still.

The hospital came into sight at long last, and he parked badly at the entrance and abandoned the car to be towed away.

He staggered through the double doors, and Rusty was cradled in his arms. "I need help," he called loudly, and almost instantly he was overwhelmed by a host of people, staring at him, staring at Rusty, and they took Rusty out of his arms and he had to force himself to let them.

They put Rusty on a trolley and doctors were yelling urgently at each other, and his Spanish didn't cover medical terms, and he tried to follow them deeper into the hospital, and his way was blocked by a stern-looking nurse. "You let doctors do their job," she told him, speaking slowly and emphasising each word. "You stay here."

He shook his head. "Not going to happen," he explained tightly, and as she frowned at him, he felt all control slip away. "_Please_," he begged, and there was a lifetime behind the word, and her gaze softened.

"You are a relative?" she asked quietly.

Danny nodded quickly. "My brother," he said, and he made the hesitation seem natural. Rusty probably didn't have any ID on him that would contradict the story; no one brought a man to die in the middle of nowhere and left him his wallet. And 'lover' was often a safer story to tell, but he could feel the weight of his wedding ring, he hadn't thought to take it off, and that left everything a little more 'Dallas' than he liked. Besides, he still remembered waking up in that hospital in Salt Lake City to a morality lecture and a disgusted look, and Rusty more tense than he should have been.

The nurse studied him for a long moment, sympathy in her eyes. "Come with me," she decided at last. "The doctors will need to know what happened anyway."

"Thank you," he breathed, and meant it.

He stood in the little room and watched them force IV lines into Rusty's arm, watched them take blood and clean wounds, and he spun a tale about Roderick Daniel Walker and his unlucky brother Russell, about a terrible hiking accident and the desperate search. There were places the story didn't add up. He knew that. But in any state of mind, even on automatic pilot, he could sell a lie and by the time he'd finished, there were nurses with tears in their eyes, anxious to bring him coffee, call him a hero.

He took the coffee.

He waited for Rusty to wake up.

* * *

There was noise and movement and too much light. The world spun out of control and it hurt, he hurt, and there were people standing over him, talking to him and he couldn't understand what they were saying and he couldn't see their faces and then they started stabbing him and he screwed his eyes shut and hoped the nightmare would be over soon. But the ropes had gone now. That was important. He had to pay attention, had to stay focussed. There were no ropes, he wasn't tied up any more, and that meant that he had to move, he had to leave. Crawl away on his hands and knees, if necessary. He'd promised Danny. Fight. Always fight. To his last breath.

With agonising effort he shoved himself up on his elbow and tried to roll on to his side. Pain, and he would have screamed, if he had the strength. And the voices got a little more urgent and a lot more angry and there were hands dragging him down, and he couldn't let them, didn't matter that he couldn't win, he had to try, and he swatted at the hands and grimaced inside at his feebleness, and suddenly there were more hands pushing him down and he didn't like that at all, because if the rat came back he wouldn't be able to move, and what if it was a prelude to Manoso and his power tools? Couldn't let Danny see that, couldn't bear it. He heard himself moan, and then there was another voice, a voice that had never been truly angry at him, and Danny was shouting and the hands vanished one by one until there was only one, comforting weight. Danny's hand on his chest. Danny's hand over his heart, and that meant something, something he should be thinking about, but he was tired now, and the darkness was getting darker.

* * *

Rusty grew calm under his hand and he, in turn, took comfort in the feeling of Rusty's heart beating against his palm.

"You must be a _very_ close family," a voice said, and Danny turned to see one of the doctors smiling at him.

"We are," he told her simply.

She nodded and he watched as she walked round and began carefully cleaning the wound on Rusty's forehead.

"Will he need stitches?" he asked, after a moment.

"Not for this," she said quickly. "The bite on his stomach, yes."

"And . . ." He couldn't quite bring himself to ask the question.

"Nothing that won't heal," she assured him. "He was lucky. Another hour or so . . . " She shrugged and gently motioned him out of the way.

Finding his legs wouldn't support him anymore, Danny sat heavily on the nearest chair and watched her treat Rusty's injuries, watched the liquid flow flow from the IV line, watched Rusty sleeping.

Another hour or so. If he'd wasted more time at the grave. If Richei had held out. If Richei hadn't wanted to meet him. If Carlota hadn't been on the corner. If he'd walked past without finding out what the concierge wanted. If he'd waited for the later plane. If he'd spent longer brooding over their argument. A chain of luck and chance. That was all that had brought them here. Any of that, and it could have been different.

He could have lost Rusty.

The trembling crept up on him and he clenched his fists, his fingernails digging hard into his palms.

He could have lost Rusty.

* * *

He awoke to raging pain and unbearable thirst. Nothing unusual there, and he turned his head to the side and licked at his cracked lips, as though somehow it could make them better.

A cool hand caressed his forehead and there were suddenly ice chips being held to his lips, and he sucked eagerly at the moisture, at the coolness and it was paradise, except it was far, far better than that, because he knew who was there. Danny. And Danny was far more important than his thirst.

He lifted his head slightly, ignored the ice chips, and managed to kiss Danny's hand. "Sorry," he rasped, because that was important, and he had to say it, had to say it out loud. "Danny, I'm sorry."

Danny's thumb brushed down his cheek. "It's okay, Rus'. It's all okay."

It wasn't, though. He had to apologise. Had to make Danny believe him. "I'm sorry for dying. Sorry for leaving you. I tried, I really did."

There was a silence that he didn't understand, and when Danny next spoke his voice was choked. "You did more than try, Rus'. You waited for me. And I found you."

"Knew you would," Rusty pointed out dreamily.

"In time," Danny said, with a strange catch in his voice. "I was in time. You stayed for me."

"Promised," Rusty explained and then the darkness came again, and the last was the feeling of Danny's hand stroking his hair.

* * *

Rusty's words left Danny shaking, and he thought again about the words Rusty had scratched into the floor, thought about what he could have found, thought about what time would have done. He shuddered, and most of all, he thought about Rusty lying in the dark, waiting to die. Not the way that things were supposed to go.

Rusty had needed to apologise for dying. Rusty had been thinking of the future, had been picturing Danny finding him weeks, months, years down the line, and he would have, and he would have _seen._

And more than that. They weren't meant to be alone.

He settled back down on the uncomfortable chair and watched Rusty sleep. The hours fell away, one by one by one and the only things left in his head were the might-have-beens.

* * *

He woke up to the feeling of cool starched sheets, the smell of disinfectant and a bleeping sound echoing his heart-beat. Hospital, then. Huh. That was never good. Though of course there were many, many worse ways to wake up. He held his breath and stretched with all his senses. There was no one in the room. And that was good and that was bad.

Lying still, he considered carefully. There was pain. Quite a lot of pain. His head, his arms and legs, his wrists, his throat, his stomach . . .actually, just generally all of him hurt. But no agony. Nothing was screaming for his attention. Which was good.

Next step; he opened his eyes slowly. The light hurt a little, but nothing he couldn't cope with. He was in a private hospital room. Not what he'd been expecting somehow and he thought back and remembered heat and thirst and endless pain and the certainty of death. Great. He bit his lip; Danny had been there, he was almost certain. His memories didn't make a whole lot of sense, but he remembered an open door and he remembered the _look _on Danny's face_. _He couldn't have imagined that. No one could have.

Danny had been here, and now – he took a quick look round and confirmed what he'd already known – now, Danny was nowhere to be found. That wasn't good, and he felt the first stirrings of fear and apprehension. Suppose Manoso's people had come back? What would Danny have done to protect him? What could Danny have done while Rusty was helpless to stop him? _(Anything.) _

He had to find Danny. Now. Right now. He had to find Danny right now. Ignoring the fact that it was a phenomenally bad idea, he sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment, breathing heavily and watching the grey specks dancing in front of his eyes. As soon as his head cleared, he started pulling the wires and lines that chained him to the bed. And that hurt like hell, and the bandages that seemed to be covering his hands weren't exactly helpful. Anyone would think that they designed this stuff so that patients couldn't up and leave anytime they wanted.

Finally he was free, and he stood up and gritted his teeth as the room swayed alarmingly. With, he'd be the last to admit, considerably more stubbornness than sense, he stumbled forwards a couple of painful steps. Or tried to. Just before the ground came up and hit him in the face, he vaguely saw Danny standing in the doorway with a polystyrene cup of coffee and an expression of concern and resignation.

Less than a second later he heard the cup of coffee splash onto the floor and Danny was crouched beside him.

"Suppose you want to explain the plan here?" Danny asked, and his hand was on Rusty's shoulder.

With a grimace he looked up into Danny's eyes, letting him see he was fine. And that gave him pause. By the way Danny was studying him, it was a safe bet that somewhere along the way he'd been something less than coherent. He tried to look reassuring. "Was looking for my shoes," he explained and he saw the guilt blossom on Danny's face, and he knew that Danny knew exactly what he'd been looking for.

He glared until Danny smiled and shook his head. "Every single time . . . " Danny said wonderingly. "I only stepped out of the room for a moment. How do you do it?"

"It's a talent," Rusty told him seriously.

There was a startled exclamation from the door and Rusty looked over to see a nurse standing there looking shocked. She turned and shouted down the corridor for help, and Rusty briefly considered his chances of being able to get up on his own, before sighing and looking back up at Danny.

Without a word, Danny scooped him up and carried him back to the bed. And if he took comfort in that, there was only ever the two of them to know. Better to ask for help from Danny. If he had to. And he smiled, as Danny poured him a glass of water and helped him drink it. Not just because it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. Better never to have to ask for help in the first place.

Shortly the room seemed full of nurses and Rusty found himself being glared at several times over. "What were you doing out of bed?" the tall one demanded. Her name badge said her name was Beatriz. It didn't suit her. "And you!" She rounded on Danny. "You should have waited for the nurses to help."

"Sorry," they said in unison and she sighed huffily at their hangdog expressions of contrition. Rusty had a sudden desire to introduce her to Saul. Just to see what happened.

Danny stood back to let her in to growl at the sight of the ripped-out IV lines, and Rusty shot him a look that called him a coward.

Somehow, Danny didn't look especially bothered.

With an inward sigh, Rusty smiled winningly up at Beatriz and switched to Spanish. "There's no need to replace all that," he argued persuasively. "I'm feeling much better."

"Ignore him," Danny interrupted firmly. "He's an idiot."

She looked from one to the other and her frown spoke of exasperation. "Doctor's orders, Mr Walker. You can discuss the matter with him later."

Rusty's eyes flickered over to Danny. Huh. Danny's mouth was set. Well, they could have the argument later. In the meantime, there were people in the room and things he didn't know.

"Where are we anyway?" he asked Danny, with innocent concern in his voice and another question altogether in his eyes.

Danny flashed him a look of understanding. "We're still in Havana, little brother. You remember hiking? You fell down a crevasse. It was . . . it was four days before I found you."

The catch in Danny's voice at the end was genuine and Rusty winced inside. Danny had lost him for four days. That was agony in itself.

"I'd almost started to give up looking, Russell," Danny added and Rusty was almost too distracted by the need to make his objections to 'Russell' known, to pick up on the rest. Danny would never stop looking for him. Never. And they both knew they both knew that. So what Danny meant was that other people weren't looking for him. And that was good. Though it was one less argument he could use to try and get out of hospital as fast as possible.

He thought he had all the important details down now though. Everything else could be bluffed.

With Danny's expression promising that he was going nowhere anytime soon, he settled back in the bed, and concentrated on ignoring Beatriz.

* * *

By the time the nurses left them alone again, Danny had been sure that Rusty had fallen asleep, and so he'd been surprised when Rusty had turned his head to look at him thoughtfully. "How am I?"

Danny was quick to assure. "You're going to be fine," he promised. "Dehydration, couple of infections, and your hands and feet are in a mess. Nothing that won't heal. You're going to be on antibiotics for a while." He hesitated. "They gave you a tetanus shot and they've started you on rabies vaccine."

Rusty stared at the ceiling blankly for a couple of seconds. Then he gave Danny a subdued smile. "At some point there's going to be mocking for that, right?"

Danny closed his eyes and thought of Rusty lying helpless in the dark, thought of rats scuttling over him, imagined their claws, their teeth, their beady little eyes. He shuddered. "Sure," he agreed, swallowing hard. "Mocking."

There was a pause and Danny waited for the question. He wasn't disappointed. "So when can I get out of here?"

"The doctor said maybe tomorrow night," he answered patiently.

Rusty was less than satisfied. "So when can I get out of here?"

"When the doctor says," Danny repeated and there was an edge to his voice.

"Since when - "

Danny reached across and pinched the back of Rusty's wrist. The skin stayed in a little mound.

Rusty grimaced. "Watch it; I bruise easily."

"Yeah," Danny agreed quietly. "They want you to stay on a drip for at least twenty four hours." You almost _died_, he didn't add.

"Can't I just go home and drink water?" Rusty suggested.

Danny shrugged. "Something about electrolytes."

There was a frown. "Can't I just go home and drink sports drinks?"

He could feel the last of his patience shattering. "Rus' . . ." His voice was pained and shaky.

Rusty looked up at him quickly and Danny almost winced at the dawning of understanding, Rusty squeezed his hand gently. "You found me, Danny. You saved me."

Danny shook his head and the worry and the loss and the almost and the might-have-been rose up inside him. "I wasn't looking for you when I found you," he admitted in a whisper. "I was looking for a shovel."

There was a pause. Rusty was looking at him. "Havana is a long way to come for that," he said at last.

He didn't smile and he stared down at Rusty's hand in his. "There were . . . I found . . ." He took a deep breath and licked his lips. "There were graves, Rus'. Near where I found you. One of them was recent."

"Oh, Danny," Rusty breathed and he brought Danny's hand to his lips briefly. "It wasn't me. You found me."

He nodded and he couldn't speak past the lump in his throat, and he held Rusty's hand tightly and never wanted to let go.

* * *

_He was back in the darkness again and Danny was far away, Danny had never been here and he knew the rat was scurrying closer, could hear it, could feel it, and it was on top of him, its little, sharp feet were scraping over his face, digging down across his mouth, and he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, Danny, please, please, get it off him, Danny . . ._

With a muffled cry, he woke to find Danny holding him tightly, pleading with him. "Rus'! Rusty, wake up. There's nothing on you, I promise."

"I'm awake," he promised, a little unsteadily, and he leaned in a little closer. "Last few days have not been fun," he said, after a moment. Not for either of them.

"Yeah," Danny agreed, and Rusty could hear the fury in his voice.

He looked up sharply. "What?"

"Manoso," Danny snarled. "They left you to die."

"They didn't," Rusty was firm. "Wasn't a plan, it was a fuck-up."

There was a pause, and Rusty lay still and hoped against hope that Danny would leave it alone. "What were they going to do?" Danny asked at last, and Rusty wished he hadn't.

The thought of what he'd known Manoso would do swam in his mind. "Let it go, Danny," he said quietly. "They didn't do anything."

Danny was looking at him. "What - "

" - power tools. He likes . . .he would have . . ." Rusty could feel his heart beating faster. He shrugged. "But he didn't."

There was a dark and distant look in Danny's eyes. He held Rusty a little tighter and said nothing.

"How did you find me?" Rusty asked, hoping for the distraction.

Danny sighed. "When you didn't show at the café - "

Rusty winced inside, remembering the argument. " - I said I -"

" - and I didn't listen," Danny said, and Rusty could hear the lie. "I called John. Found out you hadn't flown back. Went looking." He smiled briefly. "Spoke to Angel. Naked."

That was . . . that was unexpected. Rusty could feel his mind ground to an unexpected halt. And he was, after all, extremely exhausted and somewhat drugged, and even as he spoke he knew that ridiculous didn't begin to cover it. "You didn't - "

Danny choked with laughter. " - No, I did not sell my body for information. She was at the gym. Wanted a shower. Anyway, spoke to her, spoke to Juan, flew to Havana, found your hotel - "

Rusty blinked. " - that - "

" - took a while," Danny agreed shortly, and he held Rusty's hand a little tighter, as though he was afraid he might slip away. "Anyway, found someone who'd seen you being taken and who knew the driver and I offered the driver money to tell me where you were."

Danny had finished brightly. And of course, Rusty had heard everything that wasn't said – the time passing, the desperation, the exhaustion, the _fear. _He could imagine it all too clearly, could live the hell Danny had been in as easily as Danny could live his. But there was something more than that. Something that Danny would give everything to keep from him. "The driver - "

" - it's nothing," Danny said immediately.

With a wince, Rusty pressed on. "He took the money?"

There was a long silence and Rusty could read the truth and the misery in Danny's face. "I did what I had to do," Danny said at last.

Rusty didn't say thank you. Didn't say he was sorry. Didn't say he'd have done the same thing in Danny's position. None of that would help. None of that was anything Danny didn't already know. Instead, he leaned forwards and wrapped his arms lightly around Danny, and held on until he felt the trembling subside.

"You found me," he repeated, quietly, after forever.

"I found you," Danny agreed.

With regret, Rusty felt his eyes closing again. "Don't let them turn off the lights," he mumbled as he lay back.

"I won't," Danny promised tenderly.

* * *

Rusty had sleepily thrown him out of the room when the nurse came back in. And he'd acted as if it was because of embarrassment, but as Danny had stood in the doorway, hurt and pretending, Rusty had thrown out the suggestion "Go phone Tess, or something." And their eyes had met, and the hurt had faded and he'd smiled his understanding and his thanks.

For a while he wandered the hallways in search of a payphone, but when one absolutely failed to materialise, he shrugged and found his way into the closest unoccupied office and sat behind Dr Ramos' desk like he belonged.

At some point, he'd need to call John and Angel and Juan and tell them that Rusty was still alive. Before there were rumours to unexaggerate. But Tess was far more important and it took a moment or two of staring at the phone before he managed to dial the number. Took a moment or two before Tess answered, and that had him frightened.

"Hello?" Her voice was full of sleep and fear and Danny's heart clenched, and he realised that it was four o'clock in the morning. Never a good time to get a phone call.

He tried to sound apologetic and reassuring and loving all at once. "Tess? It's - "

" - Danny!" She sounded frantic. "Danny, what's wrong? Where are you? I've been trying to call you, your cell isn't working, and - "

" - Tess, Tess, it's okay," he promised. "Everything's okay. I'm sorry I didn't call earlier."

"Where are you?" she asked again, obviously having decided on a priority, now that he was obviously alive and well.

"Hospital," he said, and let her assume Miami. "I'm okay," he added quickly. "Rusty's . . .sick." It was difficult to say. Frightening to think of.

There was a pause. "It's bad?" she asked in a whisper.

He closed his eyes. "It was," he admitted. "He's going to be fine, now."

"What . . .?" she began tentatively and Danny searched for something that she could believe and understand.

"He got bitten by something. Some kind of animal." She'd see the injuries. Might as well start off with a sensible explanation. "It got infected . . . it's been pretty bad. He was in a lot of pain."

"How did he get bitten?" Tess asked and he could hear the frown and he could hear the horror.

"We're never staying in _that_ hotel again," Danny said, and that was no kind of explanation, but it sounded like one.

"Is he still in pain?" she asked in a small voice.

"No," Danny assured her immediately. Not by Rusty's definition of pain, anyway.

"And he's really going to be okay?" She was anxious.

"Yeah." His voice ached with relief. "He is." He could easily not have been. Danny could have been having a different conversation with Tess right now. And he thought of the power tools and he thought of the circular saw blade he'd held in his hand and what it was supposed to be used for, and he had to hide the screaming from Tess and he had to hide the screaming from Rusty.

"Danny?" Tess began, after a moment and it took him a second to come back to the real world

"Yes?"

"Do you want me to fly down?" she said in a rush. "I could be with you tomorrow."

"No, it's fine Tess." Not possible. But he loved that she offered. "He's going to be released tomorrow evening, hopefully. We'll be flying back up immediately."

"Okay," she said and she sounded a little reluctant.

"Tess?" Danny began, and it was his turn to be hesitant. Just a little He was almost, almost certain of her answer.

"Yes, Danny?" she answered eagerly.

He smiled a little. "I was thinking . .. I'd be happier if Rusty would stay with us for a few days. Just until I know that he's feeling better."

"Of course," she agreed immediately. "I'll get the room ready. Lay on a supply of junk food and whisky." He could hear the smile in her voice, but he still immediately shook his head.

"No whisky. Antibiotics."

"Of course," she sounded as though she was kicking herself for not thinking of it. "Does he know he's going to be staying with us?"

"Not yet," Danny admitted.

She laughed a little. "Good luck convincing him."

Danny grinned to himself. "Wasn't planning on asking his opinion."

"Good luck," she repeated, then paused, uncertain. ". . . Danny?"

"Yes?" He waited and there was a long pause.

"If I'd said no . . . " she began at last, and it was as if she was trying to understand something. "You'd have taken Rusty back to his place, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, of course," he agreed. He'd never have insisted if she didn't want.

"And you'd have stayed with him." It wasn't a question.

He hesitated, but he owed her the truth. " . . .yes."

"Okay," she said finally, and she sounded as though she understood something.

"I love you Tess," he said, quiet and sincere.

He could picture her smile. "I love you too, Danny. I'll let you get back to him."

"Thank you."

"Give Rusty a hug from me," she added quickly.

"Okay," he agreed, reflecting on the awkwardness of the thought.

"Danny . . ." and her voice was full of warning.

"I _will," _he protested.

"I'll be checking with Rusty later," she promised and he knew that she would.

He smiled. "Okay. I do love you."

"I know," she agreed. "Goodnight Danny."

"Goodnight," he said quietly. "I'll see you soon."

He hung up the phone. He missed her.

* * *

He smiled when Danny came back into the room and didn't bother trying to pretend to himself that he wasn't more relieved than he should be. "You look like hell you know," he said thoughtfully. "When did you last sleep?"

"Thanks Rip Van Winkle," Danny shot back.

Rusty grinned. "How's Tess?"

"She's fine," Danny assured him. Then he smiled slightly and lay down on the bed beside Rusty and pulled him into his arms.

Rusty made no objection. But he did _look_.

"Tess told me to hug you from her," Danny explained.

"Huh," Rusty considered this and rested his head back against Danny's shoulder. "Awkward."

"That's what I thought," Danny agreed.

There was a pause and then they both spoke at once. "The phone call . . ." "The argument . . . "

He twisted round to look up at Danny and Danny looked up at him. For a long moment there was silence and then Danny laughed and Rusty grinned and the stupidity was forgotten. Set aside, never to be mentioned again.

Rusty sighed and his head dropped back to Danny's shoulder. "Think we can not do this again?"

He could feel Danny smile. "I'm willing to give it a try."

His eyelids were drooping shut again. "'M still tired," he complained.

"Get some rest then," Danny suggested gently and he didn't think he had much choice. "When you wake up, we'll talk about you leaving pizza boxes on your kitchen counter for months on end."

"Okay," Rusty agreed affably. He was warm and comfortable and for once, he had no intention of arguing.

"And it's my turn to choose the movie, and if it happens to be 'Pretty Woman' you are absolutely not allowed to make any comments."

"Sure," he mumbled, and shifted a little, trying to get comfortable against Danny in a way that absolutely did not count as snuggling.

"And," Danny added casually. "You're coming back to stay with me and Tess for a few days."

"Mmmhmm," he smiled, all his being focussed on the rise and fall of Danny's chest. Safety. Happiness. Everything he wanted. He started to drift off to sleep.

Then his eyes shot open. "Wait, _what_?"

* * *

**Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. Would love to hear what you thought of it all.**


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